


A love song sung at dawn

by embracelouis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Harry, Bottom Louis, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Mild Painplay, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Some D/s elements, Top Harry, Top Louis, duh - Freeform, lame literary references, loosely based on Shameless UK, some ziam because why not, tomlinshaw friends with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 84,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embracelouis/pseuds/embracelouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry spends the afternoon trying to come up with some decent lyrics for a tune he’s had in mind forever. But anything he tries to sing either sounds too cheesy and cliché, or too pathetic.</p><p>Each time the pad of his finger plucks one of the strings it reminds him of Louis’ skin, taut and splintery, almost electric, as if beneath it Louis was made of wires and cables, things not fit to be exposed to the outside world.</p><p>Less than an hour later, he’s already given up. He starts to strum mindlessly, humming Oasis songs all mashed up together, mind inevitably drifting, wondering why Louis left before he woke up.<br/>-</p><p>AU where Louis has always felt stuck while Harry has an habit of running away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A love song sung at dawn

**Author's Note:**

> I've debated for a long time whether to post this or not, because this story doesn't have a particularly happy ending. But here I am!
> 
> The biggest thank you goes to my lovely beta Maddie (nightwide on Tumblr) who helped me so much both with the story and the characters and with the editing of this fic!
> 
> Then, thanks to Lee (mustbe-themusic on Tumblr) who asked me daily if I was writing and who read this and gave me so much constructive feedback.
> 
> And thanks to my other beta Sabrina, subtlehaz on Tumblr. Your help was precious!
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine.

He wakes up fifteen minutes before his alarm goes off. His stomach grumbles, protesting. He knows he won't be able to eat anything though, judging from the nausea prickling the back of his throat. He might have a mild headache. All in all, not the ideal way to start the day, considering he has a job interview to go to. The tattered white curtains hanging from his windows have definitely seen better days, and they do nothing to stop the sun from seeping through. It's strange to have such a sunny day at the beginning of January, and, he ruefully considers, it can only mean that the temperature outside is arctic.

Three sharp bangs on his bedroom door startle him, making his forehead throb. Claire's shrill voice rings from the hall. 

"Louis! Louis! Wake up!"

He sighs and grunts. _I'm already bloody awake_ , he thinks. He tosses the duvet away from his body, cold hitting his toasty limbs and making him feel ten times more alert. He gets up and the soles of his naked feet brush against the old, bristly carpet. Great, now he has a terrible itch on the bottom of his feet; no, more like underneath his skin. It serves him right for not wearing any socks to bed.

"What on earth has happened now?" he whisper-shouts, pulling the door open. He already sounds exasperated, and it's not even 8 am. He feels guilty, though, when he’s faced with Claire's frown.

"Where the hell is Ian?" She’s angry, her arms akimbo.

"Oh, fuck. Erm," Louis' heart rate speeds, and he attempts to wipe the last traces of sleep from his eyes, tries to remember where the hell his thirteen-year-old brother is supposed to be. "He said he was gonna spend the night at Charlie's." 

"He hasn't replied to any of my texts. His phone is dead." She scatters towards the stairs, yelling their sister's name.

Louis listens to Claire's agitated voice, and he is so sure he is missing something. Something important, the reason why Claire is so distraught. So much so, that she came to bang on Louis' door, a rather odd behavior since she's usually more than committed to minding her own business. Oh, fuck. He grimaces, starting to undress from his pyjamas. Today is the first day of school after Christmas holidays, and if Ian doesn't show up, his teachers are ready to send an inspector to their house. And they can't have that, definitely not.

Louis is fully dressed in his best, and only, white button up and dark jeans, topped with a soft green jumper. He miraculously discovers that the bathroom is empty. The air in the small loo is stuffy though, a lingering smell of smoke and something stale. He quickly brushes his teeth, and fails at combing his fringe to the side in a way that won't make him look like an emo teenager. Well, he doesn't have time for that now.

Downstairs the situation is chaotic. Claire is still trying, in vain, to reach Ian's phone, pacing back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, clutching the phone to her ear. Ruby is leaning on the counter, peering with a serious expression inside the toaster, as if her piercing stare could make the bread toast faster. She greets Louis with a nod.

"Do you want some toast?" she offers, voice soft. She is the meek one, out of her and Claire. And Louis is so glad, so thankful, that she isn't as feisty as her big sister, because he couldn't have handled it if Ruby had picked up some of Claire's worst habits. Like yelling when she's on the phone, the certainty that any mild inconvenience she encounters is indeed the end of the world, the whole drama queen attitude some people accuse Louis of having too. They are totally wrong. 

"No, love. Not very hungry." 

He puts the kettle on, and his and Ruby's heads turn towards Claire's increasing agitation.

"You know you will have to sort it on your own, right? I have to catch a bus to West Gorton." Louis will have to hurry, taking into account that the buses in Chatsworth are probably the least reliable things on earth.

"Thank you! Thank you!" Claire is yelling, relieved, her scrunched up expression finally relaxing. "So, Mike told me that Jim has told him Ian slept at Charlie's and they are supposed to be meeting at school later."

"Brilliant!" Louis exclaims, just as the toaster beeps loudly and Ruby lets out a delighted squeak.

"I was starving," she starts smearing butter on the bread, and Louis' stomach contorts at the view. He nurses his scalding tea, trying not to burn his tongue, blowing inside his cup. Claire disappears upstairs.

"Was Dad here last night?" Louis asks Ruby, who is successfully eating her breakfast without peeling her eyes away from her phone. Their father isn't around much lately.

"Might've stumbled in around three. But he was gone when I woke up this morning," she replies still chewing.

"Ok, I gotta go. See you later pet." 

He slings on his parka, squeezes his sister's shoulder in lieu of a goodbye and ventures out of the front door. 

He hates being right, but he almost always is. And to say it's fucking freezing outside would be an understatement. He tries to will any thought not dedicated to the impending interview from his mind; he'll deal with the mess at home later. He has to be focused, sharp; he has to look interested and interesting, trustworthy. 

*

"Now that the ice is broken, I'd like you to talk a bit about yourself. What are you trying to achieve?" 

Miss Evans' office is a lot less intimidating than Louis would've imagined. West Gorton's Library is a rather modern building, and the floor-to-ceiling window behind Miss Evans' desk overlooks West Gorton Park, currently only housing bare poplars, lonely black benches and slopes of frosty grass. 

"I'm twenty-one, I had to drop out of university because of family issues. So I am still quite confused about what I want to do. But I'm really interested in this position, and I worked as Assistant Librarian during my last term at Manchester University. So I'm qualified for this position." Louis babbles on, his mouth is dry but he's not feeling any pressure now. It had been way worse while he was waiting for his bus after the ten minutes walk from home. Hands icy, his body so cold he felt shivers up and down his spine, heart rabbiting in his throat and a light dizziness blurring the edges of his vision. The bus was only ten minutes late, so he counted that as a win, and his stop was right in front of the library.

Miss Evans is looking at him, encouraging him to go on speaking. 

"Erm, I got all straight As in my A-levels and I wanted to study English and Drama at uni. But, as I've already told you, I had to drop out."

"Do you think you will try to get back in again? The position we are offering isn't really time consuming, you would have plenty of free time."

"Oh, no. I don't think so, I don't really plan on going back." The words are heavy on his tongue and they almost sting leaving Louis' mouth. He can't go back to uni, he can't just up and leave his family, his sisters and Ian, after what happened. And no, he won't have any spare time since he already works six nights per week. 

When he steps out of the office, Louis is sure he has given a very good impression. Miss Evans shook his hand and sent him off with a warm, toothy smile. He feels hope rising in his chest, head light with a feeling distinctly different from the giddiness of that morning. Maybe also due to the fact that he skipped breakfast and it's now almost midday. The ride back to Chatsworth seems to take half the time.

"Hiya!" Louis greets, chipper and apparently so loud he startles Zayn awake from his spot behind the cash register. "Were you having a kip while you're at work, Zaynie? No wonder this place gets robbed every other day."

Louis doesn't wait for a reply and instead goes straight for the frozen section, grabbing a bag of peas and carrot sticks. He skims the aisles, which are only three, looking for something that might stir his appetite. He finds nothing, opting for a box of chocolate cereal instead.

Zayn is glaring at him by the time Louis makes it back to the register.

"Hiya, dickhead." Zayn still looks unfairly handsome for someone who was drooling all over the counter a minute earlier, even his hair looks perfect.

"Oh, bother. The service is terrible here, I should really choose a different place to buy my groceries at," Louis tries with a posh accent.

"You fucking wanker," Zayn mutters, putting Louis' items in a shopping bag.

"You stopping by tonight?" 

"Yeah, probably. D'you think Liam will be there?"

"He could be, yeah. What else is there to do around here, eh?"

"He doesn't live 'around here'." Zayn says making air quotes, tone filled with loathing.

"I don't give a fuck, he's my mate. And he can go wherever he likes, so if you don't like him you can suck my ass, Zayn." 

"Whoa, if I didn't know any better I'd say you two were shagging. You get so sensitive when someone talks about him, relax man." 

"Yeah, see you later Zayn." Louis replies, annoyed. He doesn't get why Zayn hates Liam so much, he has never given the kid a bloody chance. 

Louis walks home cursing himself for not wearing a scarf, the weather still bone-chilling despite a timid sun illuminating the deserted street. The door is unlocked; he sighs and mentally prepares for the worst. The girls know to always leave it locked when they leave, so it could only mean one of two things.

Relief washes inside his chest like waves hitting shore when he sees the dark figure lying on the settee. The stench should've given it away, but Louis has evidently become immune to that. He gingerly gets closer, hovering over his father's limp body. He's breathing, so there's that. His hair is greasy and his belly is made prominent by his fleeced grey jumper and coat he hasn’t bothered to remove.

Louis pours himself a bowl of milk, adding an excessive amount of cereal, and he goes to his room upstairs. The girls won't be home for another couple of hours, and his shift starts at five, so his plans are to eat, maybe read something and hopefully, possibly, have a nap. He sets the empty bowl down on his bedside table, where it precariously sways from side to side twice before settling down. Louis extracts a thin volume from the messy heap of books and tries to read a few pages. His concentration is shit.

He closes the book with a huff and slides under the covers, trying to make himself comfortable. He closes his eyes, wills himself to sleep, but it's pretty useless. His mind just doesn't seem to have a working on/off switch. He scuttles between the sheets, tossing from side to side, unable to stop thinking. He relives that morning's interview in his head over and over again, now feeling far less confident than he had a couple hours before. He just wants to sleep a bit; he feels knackered and he'll have to stay awake until at least 12 am. 

He tries to stay frozen still in the position he usually sleeps in, on his right side. He shuts his eyes and attempts to relax every single muscle in his body. The buzz in his head seems to have quietened down a little, and that's when he starts to hear every other kind of noise that he hadn't noticed before: the occasional, far away rumble of a car passing; the low hum of a vacuum cleaner coming from his neighbor's house; children shouting in the playground; the loud noise of drilling from a nearby construction site, boring into his skull. Fuck. There is no way he'll be able to fall asleep.

Louis lies there, motionless, frustrated. He hears the front door opening, three pairs of feet making their way into the house. Claire and Ruby retire into their room, Claire already speaking animatedly on the phone about some video. Ian stays downstairs and after a while Louis hears him leaving again. He is never home, ever. Louis would literally give an arm to know where his brother spends his days. He certainly doesn't do any of his homework, even when he claims some girl from his year is tutoring him. Louis still has to meet this phantom female friend Ian has, and he never stops worrying for him. He trusts Claire and Ruby; they’re old now. He knows they are levelheaded, they know how to take care of themselves when Louis' not there, and they help with Ian too. But Louis knows the kind of people Ian could meet when he roams Chatsworth's streets at night, and some of them are far from decent company.

The clock tells Louis it's already past 4 pm, and that he has been lying there for almost two hours without getting a single minute of sleep. He feels cranky, irritated, and the steaming shower he takes does nothing to mitigate his annoyance. 

Before leaving he peeks into the living room, his father no longer there. In his place is the neighbor's cat, Orestes, peacefully clawing at the sofa's fabric. Someone, probably Claire, has left all the windows open and the air is not as thick as it was before, but that let the chill invade every inch of the ground floor and Louis hastily closes them after shooing Orestes. He doesn't have the strength to go back upstairs to tell her off, so he leaves, making sure he has locked the door. 

*

The trek to the Jockey is short, and his face is covered to the tip of his nose with a snood he found in his father's room. It's already pretty dark and a light wind tickles his exposed skin and messes up his hair. Louis makes a mental note to also wear a beanie next time.

The Jockey is almost empty when he arrives, and Rebecca is eating egg and chips behind the counter with a bored expression. 

"Hiya, love. You hungry?" 

"Yes, I'm starving." Louis thinks about his meagre lunch and his stomach grumbles in sympathy.

"Help yourself," she slides the plate in Louis' direction.

"Where's Greg?"

"Should be here soon, had to meet with a supplier."

Rebecca's belly is getting bigger everyday. She has a hard time standing up and, honestly, Louis thinks she should be upstairs resting in the flat above the pub instead of serving drinks to Chatsworth's drunks. But that's not what she seems to think; if it were for her she'd probably be happy to give birth on the grimy floor between the stools at the bar. 

The night proceeds at a dull pace. Greg is back in time for a group of footie fans to start a ruckus, and he, a City fan, is begrudgingly obliged to switch channels to Man U's match. Finally, Liam comes to Louis' rescue. He sits at the counter and entertains him with a string of disparate anecdotes. Louis isn't really listening to him, he mostly likes his voice and the way in which he articulates his thoughts.

"Are you even paying attention to me?" Liam huffs.

"Not really, did you say something important?" 

"I said I've heard Harry is back in West Gorton. I haven't seen him yet, but his family used to live not far from my place. Looks like he came back with his tail between his legs."

"Wow, what an engaging story you're telling me, Payno. I'm dying to know more." Louis rolls his eyes. Why should the news of Harry's return be of any interest to him?

"Louis, I know you couldn't stand him in school, but he was ok, and I'm happy he's back."

"What about Niall?" Louis likes Niall, definitely more than that other bloke. Niall is Irish, Niall is fun, and he is Greg's brother and about to be an uncle. He really hopes he came back to Chatsworth, too.

"I have no idea, mate. Actually, I was about to ask you."

"Greg is a little absent lately, and Rebecca only talks about the baby. I feel like I'm running this place all by myself sometimes." 

Both Louis and Liam turn their heads when a smiling Zayn makes a triumphal entry, clearly high off his ass, and plonks down on a stool next to Liam. 

"Hi Louis," Zayn greets, purposefully ignoring Liam's 'hello'. 

"Zayn, Liam here was just telling me something. I'm sure Zayn will be interested, go on Liam, tell him the big news."

Liam is blushing, he looks embarrassed and almost sputters in his glass. He puts down the diet coke a tad too forcefully, and turns towards Zayn, who is looking at him with glazed, red rimmed eyes.

"You know Harry Styles?" 

"Yes, of course, we were mates in school. Haven't heard from him in ages, though, we lost contact about a year after he moved to London," Zayn replies, and Louis thinks that is the longest conversation Zayn has ever had with Liam without insulting him. 

"Looks like he came back to live here." Liam says raising his hands to Louis in a 'here, I've done it' gesture.

"Isn't it great, Zaynie?" Louis exclaims, feigning excitement and pressing his hands into his cheeks. Zayn is cackling, and Liam observes him out of the corner of his eyes, still drinking his coke.

"Great, Louis,” Zayn smirks, “Just you wait until we see Harry, I will have so much fun." 

"Why?" Liam asks, but Zayn pretends he hasn't heard him.

"Now, may I have a pint and a shot of whiskey, my dear?" Zayn says in a smarmy tone that has Louis snorting. He serves Zayn and inspects the current situation: the pub regulars are all there. It's past ten and it looks like finally some people are arriving – not much more to do around here, as Zayn had wisely said that afternoon.

"Louis, someone's looking for you," Rebecca tells him.

Greg is waving at him, and Louis moves over towards the other end of the bar, near the entrance. He is genuinely and pleasantly surprised.

"Nick!" He feels the corner of his mouth curl up in a big smile. Nick is smirking too, eyes bright with his trademark mischievous glint.

"What can I get you?" Louis frantically fixes his fringe, an unconscious movement he can't seem to control.

"Gin and tonic, ta."

Louis starts to mix the drink for Nick, feeling his eyes on him. They've known each other for a little more than a year now. Nick is a business supervisor who lives in Stretford and doesn't really make it all the way to Chatsworth for a pint every night. But Louis is glad when he does. They had met here, by chance, one night when Nick was out with a client. Nick had shamelessly flirted with him, staying after his friend had called it a night, and Louis, disregarding his initial wariness, had started to flirt back. Greg and Rebecca were on honeymoon, so the flat upstairs was empty, and when the last customer had left, Louis had invited Nick up for what he had thought would be a one night stand. 

"How are you, love?" Nick takes a sip and inconspicuously licks his lips.

"Oh, same old. I'm glad you're here, tonight's been really boring." 

"We can't have a pretty thing like you getting bored, we absolutely need to do something about it."

Nick wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Louis dissolves into giggles, immediately trying to regain his composure. He works so hard to look unapproachable towards strangers, tries to give the impression he is above everyone he doesn't know, but as soon as he sees Nick he acts like Ruby when she has a crush. Louis knows he doesn't really fancy Nick, it's more of a friendship with benefits. But he likes him, he likes his long fingers and floppy quiff. The way he leans against the counter and watches him work, not taking his eyes off him until everyone is served and Louis can go back to chatting with him. 

Louis looks around, noticing that the bar is almost empty and all the regulars are sitting at their usual tables, the occasional explosion of roars when something interesting happens in the match on telly. He goes back to where Liam and Zayn are still sitting next to each other. Zayn's mate Aiden is now there, he and Zayn laughing obnoxiously, while Liam fiddles with his phone wearing a miserable expression. He lights up a bit when he sees Louis.

"Nick's here," Liam exclaims almost teasing, but the dirty look Louis gives him erases any trace of mirth from his eyes.

"I know, thanks. I have eyes. Might take a break now if Greg's alright with that."

Greg agrees but says Louis will have to stay until closing time by himself that night. Since Rebecca already went to bed, Louis tells Nick to meet him in the backroom instead of upstairs. 

Nick looms over Louis in the dark room, making him retreat until Louis' bum hits the edge of the desk. The only other pieces of furniture are a chair and an old armchair in a corner. The air around them is damp and faintly mossy, but Nick's breath is hot when it hits Louis' face, a moment before he is kissing him. They don't have much time usually, but Nick always wants to touch Louis everywhere before they really do it.

Louis feels Nick's large hands ghost around the hem of his t-shirt, until Nick is grabbing his hips, cold fingers that make every pore in Louis' body erupt with goosebumps. 

It’s not really like Louis is doing something that he shouldn't. Nick's not that much older than him, he's only thirty-something, and Louis has his boss' permission to be there. Still, the rush of adrenaline that courses throughout his limbs is maybe even more powerful than the arousal invading his lower abdomen. He kisses Nick hard, more biting than kissing, but Nick seems to like it and responds with just as much impetus. 

What Louis likes the most about Nick is his smell. During their first time together, Louis had discovered that Nick smells like something he had never smelled before. He smells like money and expensive cologne, and like something sweet and rough at the same time. His scent wraps around Louis' whole body and fills up his nose until he can't seem to breathe in anything else. Even after a night at the pub, Nick's clothes smell fresh from the dry cleaning, still looking perfectly ironed without a single crease in his shirt, and Louis just wants to mess them up so badly.

Nick bends him over the desk, producing a pack of lube from his trousers. Louis feels the cool wood pressing to his cheek, his cock trapped between the desk and his tummy. Nick is touching his back, feeling every nook, every protrusion, dragging his nails on the dip of his lower back, grabbing at his hips.

"Fuck, do you eat?" Nick's voice is a mixture of poorly concealed worry and restrained arousal.

"Nick, you're two fingers deep in my arse, does it look like the moment to ask such questions?"

"You're scrawny."

"You bastard. Does this look scrawny to you?" Louis retaliates gripping one of his arse cheeks, moaning involuntarily at the feeling of Nick's fingers pulling in and out of him. 

"No, but you look thinner every time I see you," Nick removes his fingers and Louis hears him tearing open a condom. "And I'm afraid that your perky bum will disappear. I would miss it too much." He underlines his words with a light smack and Louis practically growls. 

The first push has Louis holding the edge of the desk so tightly he's sure it will leave indents in his palms. Nick fucks him good, like every other time, boring into him while he praises his arse, his body, he yanks on his hair and lets Louis forget everything else. 

But when they're finished, Nick is making everything come back to the front of Louis' mind.

"I don't want you to give me any money, Nick. You know, you fucking know I don't want your money. I'm not a rent boy. If you haven't noticed, I work here." Louis can't believe they are having this argument again, he has to repeat himself every time, he's not going to change his mind and Nick _knows_ it. He zips up his jeans, deliberately avoiding Nick's gaze.

"I know, love. But you look like you don't have enough money to buy food." Nick is trying to get back into his space, making grabby hands, but Louis swats them away.

"We have enough money, for heaven's sake. Stop nagging me, I eat. I eat when I'm hungry, and if you don't like me anymore, just say it or don't show your ugly mug here ever again." Louis feels humiliation rising from his chest to his neck, until his cheeks are burning and he just wants to punch Nick in the face. 

"You're right, ok, I'm sorry. I won't ever bring this up again, ok?" Nick is shaking his head, apologetic. 

Nick grabs Louis' elbows and Louis lets him, but he stays still and doesn't say anything. They just look at each other for a moment, Louis staring back with a defiant expression. Then Nick lets go of Louis' arms and Louis starts to make his way back to the bar.

"I'm going. I'll see you soon?" Nick says, like every time they say goodbye to each other. But this time he sounds hesitant.

"You know where to find me, Nick. It's not like I'm going anywhere," Louis scoffs, not looking at him.

Louis is back to his bartending duties and slowly the amount of people in the pub shrinks, until Zayn, Aiden and Liam are the only ones there. Greg has already gone to bed, claiming he had to check on Rebecca and then sleep at least ten hours. Louis envies him.

"So, the deal with you and Nick?" Liam inquires. Zayn and Aiden are enraptured in some video they are watching on Zayn's phone.

"There's no deal. Never has been. We're only fuck buddies." Louis replies, nonchalant.

"He's old, though."

"Don't know, he's probably thirty-one or something like that. I'm sure he told me once but I can't remember.”

"He's handsome." Liam comments in a casual tone, not looking at Louis, twisting a beer mat in his hands.

"Yes, he is." Louis immediately checks if Zayn or Aiden have heard. Liam doesn't want anyone to know he's not straight, apart from Louis. Louis sometimes wishes Liam was more open about his sexuality, but Liam is adamant that he wants it to remain a secret. Anyway, he likes girls too, so when there’s people around he makes sure to only hook up with them. Louis has never seen Liam with a guy, even though he's known he is bisexual since Year 11.

Louis hasn't really come out to anyone, rather opting to act like he couldn't give a fuck or like he doesn't have to declare his preferences to anyone. His parents never cared anyway, his mates, siblings and co-workers are totally fine with that, and in school no one ever questioned his love for women. He stopped pretending to be straight after sixth form, though, because girls just don't do it for him. 

"Anyway, Liam, your plans for tomorrow?" Louis is cleaning the counter, and he's almost finished with the glasses. He still has to sweep and mop the floor. 

"Just gonna go to the shop and then stick to my workout schedule, nothing special. Every day is the fucking same, mate. It's driving me nuts."

"When will you be able to apply?"

"Probably March, still two months to go. I'm impatient, but I'm really hoping to get in." Liam is very sensitive about this topic. He's been wanting to get into firefighter training for more than a year now, but he never had the chance to apply yet. 

"Gonna call you every time my cat gets stuck up a tree," Louis jokes.

"You don't have a cat, wanker." 

"We could decide to adopt Mrs. Dorthey's cat, he always sneaks inside our house anyway."

Louis starts to sweep the floor in front of the main entrance, leaving Liam at the counter while Zayn and Aiden are still engrossed with their phones.

"Louis, I'm going. Can't miss the last bus to West Gorton," Liam stands up and slings on his jacket. 

"Aren't you afraid to go out all alone at night around here?" Zayn takes his eyes off the phone screen for the first time in ages. It looks like he can't let himself miss any opportunity to tease Liam. 

"Why should I?" Liam snaps back, immediately defensive.

"Don't know, Chatsworth is a dangerous place for a boy like you."

"Will you shut up, Zayn?" Louis yells from his spot next to the pub entrance.

"No, I'm not afraid. I'm not a wimp, you know." Liam is visibly straining to keep his voice even, anger finding a way to colour his tone anyway. 

"You're right, you're just boring," Zayn snides, going back to staring at his phone like he’s done with the conversation.

"I'm not boring." 

"If you're not, you're coming with us down to the canal later," Zayn retorts.

Louis sometimes really wonders why Zayn is always trying to taunt Liam's supposed 'innocence'. 

"Why? You only go there so you can get stoned and vandalise stuff." Liam doesn't sound petulant, but he's dangerously close to it.

"Oh, mummy's boy doesn't do weed, he's so much better than us." Zayn sneers.

"I just don't like to get stoned and loiter around like you, just wasting time like a lousy bastard. I actually have a reason to live, you know." Liam is standing, still like a statue, glaring at Zayn. He doesn't only look angry, but hurt and humiliated, despite the harsh words he's spitting at Zayn.

"What the fuck do you think you know about me?" Zayn exclaims, standing up so abruptly he almost sends his stool tumbling to the floor.

"Oi!" Louis screams, dropping the sweep and going to grab Zayn's elbow.

"Alright boys, enough. Zayn why do you have to act like this, stop vexing him." Louis tries to maintain his nerves, even if he's so fed up with the way these two act around each other.

"I just don't understand how you can be friends with him, that's all," Zayn tells Louis in a low, venomous voice, pulling his arm out of Louis' grip.

"I'm right here, Zayn, say that to my face!" Liam yells.

"He's just not fun. Is this some kind of charity thing you like to do?" Zayn replies, still talking to Louis only. 

"Zayn, you're so fucking annoying sometimes. Will you please stop acting like a total arsehole?" Louis tries, in vain.

"Fuck off, Zayn. Really, just fuck off. Goodnight, Louis," Liam hisses, storming out. Liam is usually the one to decide when the arguments with Zayn are over, because, if it were up to Zayn, they could carry on quarreling until dawn.

Aiden is cringing and he lightly smacks Zayn's arm. "You were cruel, mate. Liam's alright. Why do you hate him so much?"

"It's been like this since secondary. I say that it's because they are too alike. Since their brains work in the exact same way, they clash," Louis explains, matter-of-factly, still pissed at Zayn.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Tommo? I'm nowhere similar to that wuss. You're insulting me!"

"Just because his father is a policeman, that doesn't mean you can't trust him. And he's not weak, Zayn, you know that. You just don't like it when people don't do what you tell them to, or aren't what you think they should be."

"That's not the problem, mate. I just don't like him as a person, ok? Can we drop it? I'm sick of talking about Liam. Always talking about Liam, about how I should try to make myself like him. I shouldn't."

"Well, too bad you're both my best mates. Sooner or later, you're gonna have to learn how to act around each other, if only for my sake. I won't let the situation get out of control like this again."

Zayn doesn't say anything, only glowers at Louis until Louis goes back to work.

"You coming to the canal or not when you're done?" Aiden and Zayn look restless suddenly, probably itching to go and smoke again as soon as possible. Louis isn't like that, he doesn't get antsy or craves a joint after only a few hours since the last one. He doesn't smoke every day like them, either, and he's glad he's not at that level of addiction; he doesn't want to waste too much money on weed.

Louis is torn about going with them or not, though, because he wants to go check on the situation at home. But he certainly won't be able to go to bed straight away and get his beauty sleep. He doesn't feel tired at all, only in need of a shower after his little rendez-vous with Nick. 

“Yeah, no thanks, think I’ll give this one a miss,”

"Ok, well we're leaving now. You're almost done anyway, right?" Aiden asks a little uncomfortably, when it's clear that Zayn isn't going to say anything.

"Yeah, don't worry. See you tomorrow." Louis replies. 

Aiden and Zayn head out and Louis yells “Bye Zayn," but he doesn't get a response. 

"Fucker," Louis mutters, thinking he should be the one giving him the silent treatment, since he can't help being a jerk around his other best friend.

Louis will absolutely have to find a way to make them like each other.

*

Louis' very surprised when, the next day, Miss Evans calls to offer him the position of Assistant Librarian. He's ecstatic, and, after receiving an email detailing the salary and benefits associated with the job, he phones Miss Evans to accept the offer. Two days later, he is making his way to West Gorton’s Library to meet with her again. 

It's another sunny day, and if someone asked Louis how he was feeling, he would promptly reply saying that he feels lucky. He hasn't seen his father since that day he found him on the settee, but they're now used to his prolonged absences so he isn't too worried about him. Ian has been going to school for four days in a row, which is probably a new record for him. The girls were particularly loud that morning, and got into a mini fight when Ruby found out Claire had stolen her jeans again. But all in all, Louis feels lucky. He doesn't know why, he doesn't know how long it will last, but he hopes this sensation erupting in his chest and making him smile for no apparent reason will not disappear too soon.

When he gets to the front of the building, it looks like there are a lot more people inside, judging from the rows of bikes locked to the railings near the main entrance. Even if a guy shoves him and almost makes him trip while he gets through the door, Louis won't let his near fall get in the way of his good spirits. He doesn't even complain about this guy's clumsiness, only muses that he looks oddly familiar, before he is again walking at a brisk pace. Louis wonders where he might have already seen him, but he completely forgets about the incident as soon as he steps into the bright room. 

"Good morning, Louis. How are you?" Miss Evans looks radiant as usual and she shakes Louis' hand with a firm grip.

"Brilliant. How are you Miss Evans?" Louis is grinning like an idiot. He sits in the chair in front of Miss Evans' desk, willing his lips back to a neutral shape.

"I think I have to ask you to call me Hilary, Louis. I believe you've received all the information about the job via email?"

Louis nods. Miss Evans gives him the contract to read before he finally signs it.

"Thank you so much, Miss Evans. I mean, Hilary." Louis is grinning again but this time he doesn't try to tone down his happiness. 

On the bus home, Louis thinks that this could be sort of a new beginning, even if his wage won't be that high considering he’ll only be working four days a week. But he's proud of himself, proud that the girls are still going to school. Even if Claire had had a crisis last year, claiming she wanted to drop out and become a famous YouTuber. Louis had been able to make her come to her senses after an hour of yelling, so angry and unable to believe she would want to do something so stupid. Then there's Ruby, and he's sure Ruby will finish secondary, and even go to college maybe. She likes to study, just like Louis did until he was forced to start looking out for his family. 

He thinks that today is a perfect day; he thinks that nothing bad could happen to him. He feels untouchable, but in the back of his mind he knows that is a feeling that won't last. 

*

"Dad?" Louis yells, shaking his father's shoulder. "Dad?" 

His father grunts and startles awake, eyes snapping open, the blue of his glazed irises muddy.

"There was a tenner in the jar on the table. Where is it?" Louis asks, but he already knows it's going to be a lost cause. God knows what happened to that ten quid.

It's 9.15, and his father reeks of cheap beer and something mouldy. Probably his hair. Louis is so sick of this. And, at this rate, he is going to be late on his first day of work. He has given the last of his change to the girls and Ian, leaving himself completely broke and in need of that emergency money that obviously someone has already used. 

"Louis," his father looks confused, perhaps not sure where he is. "Where's Sylvia?" He murmurs, and then he seems to fall back asleep at once, body slumping on the sofa.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Louis almost shouts. He will have to go around all day with no money in his pocket. It’s not that he isn't used to it, but it still sucks in any case.

He quickly walks to the bus station. His street is always empty in the mornings. It's almost eerie how his steps reverberate in the damp air around him. He tries to avoid any puddles, the tarmac under his feet uneven and bumpy. He doesn't have an umbrella, so he pulls up his green hoodie when a light drizzle starts to fall from the grey sky. It's icy, and once he reaches the bus station, it doesn't stop. Louis feels blessed his bus isn't too late that morning. 

His first morning as Assistant Librarian goes by in a blur. He has met some of his new co-workers, including a girl named Prue with whom he has spent the first two hours. She looks roughly his age and she was really kind and answered any questions he had.

After Prue had shown him the ropes, he spent the morning filing and replacing returned items. It wasn't the most exciting activity, but Louis is very methodical and he enjoyed putting everything in its place. He loves books, and he felt a little sting of sadness every time he spotted a book he owns or that he had read while he was in school, or during his sadly short uni experience.

"Do you want to have lunch with me and Julian?" Prue asks Louis when it's almost 1pm. 

Julian is a tall, thirty-something bloke who works as technical supervisor. He seems like a really cool guy, and he had made a good impression on Louis as someone really easy going. Louis is surprised by Prue's kindness, and he smiles brightly at her even if he'll have to decline the offer.

"No, thanks. I'm going to see a mate. I'll take a rain check on that, yeah?" It's true that he has to see Liam for lunch, but he's skint, so he would've said no anyway.

Now that Louis thinks of it, it's not gonna be pretty if he has to see Liam for lunch either. He doesn't have any money on him. He wasn't hungry in the first place, and now that he'll have to ask Liam to lend him five quid, Louis almost doesn't want to eat. He makes his way grumpily towards the cafe in front of the library. He spots Liam standing outside the entrance. Liam isn't alone, he's talking with some tall guy, but Louis can't see who that is because he's facing the other way.

"Louis!" Liam sees him when he's already standing on the pavement. The guy who he was talking to turns around and Louis is confused for a moment.

He has seen this bloke before, he vaguely recognises his facial features. Large nose, straight eyebrows, light green eyes. It took him a second of thinking, but he knows perfectly well who this is. 

_Styles._

But it can't be. The image of Harry Styles Louis has in his head is that of a slight framed boy, with a mouth too big for his head, gangly limbs and not particularly tall. An innocent, naive face, and short brown curly hair. The man before him is almost a foot taller than how Louis remembers him, and although his face looks almost the same, Louis registers something utterly different in his features now. A hardness that wasn't there before, an intensity to his eyes that makes Louis want to squirm away from his gaze as soon as Harry's eyes land on him. Harry also seems to not have cut his hair for quite some time, loosely curled strands reaching past his shoulders. 

"Hi," Harry says. 

Louis feels frozen still, but he steels himself and, holding Harry's gaze, he unconsciously puffs out his chest and says, "Styles," in the most unimpressed tone he can muster. 

The silence that follows is deafening and it looks like neither Harry nor Louis wants to be the first one to avert their eyes. Eventually, Liam clears his throat and both look at him.

"So," Liam starts uncertain, "Harry, are you sure you don't want to join us for lunch?"

"I'm sure he's got more important things to do," Louis chimes in, smoothly, grinning disingenuously at both Liam and Harry.

Liam gapes, head turning between Harry and Louis.

"Actually, I have to be home for lunch," Harry replies, unfazed, addressing Liam. He is sporting a sly smile too, and Louis feels affronted by his stupid dimple, which look even more pronounced than it had years before. "Goodbye Liam."

Harry rushes off, not sparing a second glance to Louis, and Louis is outraged. How dare that twat ignore him? 

"What the hell, Louis?" Liam doesn't look at all pleased.

"What?" Louis counters, with faux innocence. "You know I can't stand him."

"That was three years ago. Have you ever spoken to him since we finished sixth form?" Liam rolls his eyes, and that is never a good sign in Louis' book.

"No, and I have no interest in speaking to him. He was a presumptuous twat, we _loathed_ each other. I don't see a reason why things should change now.”

"Oh, maybe because we're not in school anymore. And we're supposed to be _adults_ and act like it. You're so immature sometimes, I swear. Claire is more grown-up than you."

Louis snorts, "Really, Liam." He reckons that this conversation is taking a turn towards ridiculousness.

"Can we at least get inside? I'm freezing and I'm starving," Liam replies, looking resigned.

"Well, I've suddenly lost my appetite." 

"What? Complete rubbish. Today's lunch is on me, let's just get inside." 

Liam orders two sandwiches, a salad, chips, tea and a bottle of water. Louis' stomach churns at the sight, he's not sure yet if he's hungry or he just feels out of sorts. 

Louis isn't really a fan of confrontation. He sure does get into a lot of arguments, usually with his sisters, or Nick. He doesn't love to pick fights with anyone, but it has always been like that between him and Harry. Harry was friends with both Zayn and Liam in school. But, just like Zayn and Liam had never managed to be in each other's presence for long without quarreling, Harry and Louis had never had a decent conversation that didn't include ill-concealed insults or a general display of dislike towards each other. 

The reasons of this distaste were inherent to their personalities, deriving from Louis' knowledge that Harry was a spoiled, shallow ego-driven overachiever who couldn't play football for the life of him, but was still the only pupil in their year who always got all straight As, and, just like Louis, every teacher adored. That was a perfectly valid basis for their mutual aversion, and throughout college, while Louis was befriending Niall, Harry's bosom pal since forever, neither Louis nor Harry had ever bothered to make even the smallest effort in trying to like each other. 

"Eat. I think you should become accustomed to Harry's presence. Niall isn't here to keep your fists off each other, and Harry doesn't have any other close friend here. We agreed to go out one of those nights, and you're gonna have to act politely." Louis has no intention of listening to this bullshit lecturing Liam is giving him.

"No fucking way. And it's ridiculous, we never even fought each other like that, not that I _wouldn't_ have beaten his arse," Louis chuckles, thinking about Harry's ineptitude on the football pitch. 

"Maybe then, yeah. Have you seen him now? He's taller than me." 

Louis gulps down a big sip of his tea with a bite of tuna sandwich. He has to admit, he's not quite sure whether he would be able to beat Styles now. Louis has remained as tall as he was in college, while Harry definitely looked almost 6 foot tall, if not more.

"I think this behaviour is bit hypocritical of you, Louis. Always going on about how me and Zayn should start getting on already. At least I've tried with Zayn. Won't you even _try_ to be friendly towards Harry?" 

"No, trust me. It's not like we're gonna hit it off any time soon anyway, so it'd only be awkward and end up with us insulting each other. So, just so we're safe, I'm gonna act like I've always acted around him." Louis can't pretend to like someone who irritates him with whatever he does or says. 

"You were obnoxious back then, Louis, do you realise that? But we were kids." Liam pauses, chewing slowly and Louis can almost see the wheels in his head turning. "Could you at least, I don't know. Try to ignore him? If you really can't be friendly. Don't provoke him, it's such a childish thing to do."

"Look, Payno, I can't promise you anything. I will _try_ to pay no attention to him, pretend he doesn't exist, so we won't have to argue or anything. How does that sound?" 

"Brilliant." Liam deadpans. "And I don't think you'd be able to ignore his presence, sadly. I know you pretty well."

"I am always so amazed by the amount of trust you have in me. Wow. Best friend ever." 

Liam looks unmoved.

"Speaking of hypocritical," Louis continues, annoyed, "I hope you'll persuade your friend to not bother me either. If he's the one who starts to ruffle my feathers, I'll turn from the lovely sparrow I am into a ravenous vulture."

"Are you calling yourself small?" Liam chuckles.

"Fuck off." 

Louis' best friend is an imbecile. 

Louis goes back to work, sorting through piles of books and repositioning them in their place. Around four, Prue informs him that his work behind the scene is over for that day, and she needs help at the front desk. Julian explains to him how the library software works, and Louis is relieved it's not as complicated as it looked from Miss Evans' emails. 

Louis is fiddling with the computer, when someone puts a book on the glass counter and mumbles, “Hi”. 

Louis lifts his gaze from the screen and stifles a gasp.

"Oh," Louis' lips are stuck in an 'o' shape, and he's struck by the realisation that Harry is the clumsy person who almost tripped him when he came to sign his contract.

"So you work here. Thought I'd seen you the other day, but I wasn't sure if you'd recognised me," Harry offers, hesitantly, the bite he had earlier to his tone completely gone.

"I didn't. I was more preoccupied with not breaking my bones before I even started my new job. Today's my first day." Louis is grinning, not sincere at all, and he raises his arms matter-of-factly. 

"Right, well, sorry. Glad I didn't trip you then."

Louis is taken aback by Harry's mildness. Has Liam already spoken to him? He also looks different than he did earlier that day, less chipper, more pensive, a deep crease between his eyebrows. 

"I'd like to borrow this," Harry says.

Louis takes the book and almost snorts. Dickens, really? _A Tale of Two Cities_. Could there be a more boring read?”

"Hope this is a good night read, 'cause Dickens makes me snore." Louis says, typing Harry's name in the database.

"Isn't it rude to comment on your patrons' novel choices?" Harry replies, amused, drumming his fingers on the counter.

"Yeah, maybe it is." Louis concedes. "Sorted," he hands out the book, and fills out a small form. "You will receive an email three days before your loan expires."

"Thanks. You still work at The Jockey, right?" Harry throws in casually.

"Yeah," Louis replies.

"I'll see you tonight, then." At last, a foxy smirk betrays itself, curving up Harry's lips for a brief second. Then Harry is walking towards the exit, leaving Louis to wonder which one of his two best friends is to blame for this situation. 

*

It has actually been a bit of shock to see Harry Styles again after more than three years.

Louis has always thought Harry was a spoiled, arse-kissing striver with a perfect family. But that in itself wasn't the reason why Louis had despised him so much. The main problem was Harry's firm belief that he was the next Liam Gallagher. Louis hates Oasis, not that he's ever listened to any of that crap music, but Harry used to have a band in secondary that went by the ridiculous name White Eskimo. "I'm Liam and you're Noel," Harry had used to tell Niall, who played the guitar in his stupid band. 

The fact is, Harry could've done literally anything he wanted with his life. He could've gone to a good university. His parents weren't rich, but not working-class poor like Louis' family had always been. He could've gone to Manchester University or even Oxford or Cambridge, he could've studied whatever he pleased and become whatever he wanted to be. He could've, basically, had the life Louis had wanted when he finished college, but that he had been denied. 

Instead, Harry had chosen to move to London, without a job or any intention to attend university, followed in tow by Niall, in order to pursue their dream of forming a successful indie band and making it in the music business. Louis thought it was so unfair, that life is so unfair. Even more when Louis had been forced to drop out after only six months of university. It was so enraging to see someone so spoiled and so overambitious, someone so sure that he would become the next rock star and everyone in Manchester would be talking about him and his band when they became famous.

Louis had never heard of any of the success Harry was so sure they would've achieved, so he had assumed Harry and Niall didn't, in fact, make it. That they had gone their separate ways, maybe, they had disbanded and found a legitimate way to succeed in the adult world. He doesn't know what became of them; he doesn't know why Harry is back. He has no idea what he has spent the last three years doing, and he doesn’t even want to know, honestly. He has better and more important things to think of. 

When Louis gets home, his father is throwing one of his alcohol induced fits. Looks like his target is Ian this time. 

"Ian, listen to your father. He knows best. Don't ever get married, you will only end up with a slag for a wife and little petulant, ungrateful brats. Look at me! What a lousy life. Left alone by my own family, like a dead animal on the side of a road." He's slurring, and his voice makes Louis' ears prickle.

Self-pity is his father's specialty, mixed with a good dose of guilt tripping and constant and colourful delusions. 

Ian is sitting on an armchair, gaze fixated on the telly, and Louis knows he is trying really hard not to listen to his father's words. Louis' father is standing near the settee, his stance uncertain and wobbly, a cigarette hanging from his thin lips, almost burned out. 

"Dad, shut the fuck up. Will you leave Ian alone?" Louis tries to maintain his tone calm, trying not to trigger his father into an even more altered state.

"Look, Ian, your brother will certainly have it alright since he only likes to take it up the gary. So no wife or kids for him," Louis' father adds, smiling lopsidedly at Louis and causing the butt of the cigarette to fall on the carpet. 

Louis rushes to pick it up and dusts off the ashes. Fortunately, the cigarette had already been out. 

"Dad, enough. Just shut up," he tries again.

When Louis stands up from his crouched position, his father is already halfway out the door.

"I'm out! I'm out! Don't worry about me, the burden is leaving. Won't bother you anymore, don't wait up for me."

He storms out.

Louis sighs. His father does this on a near daily basis. He leaves announcing he doesn't know if he'll be back. Then, sometimes he's back after a couple hours, sometimes he disappears for several days. Once, he was gone for almost a week and Louis had really feared that would be it. They had seen the last of Chris Tomlinson, gone for good. But in the end, he had reappeared, looking much the same, not giving any detailed explanation for his absence other than that he had stayed at a mate's in Mossley. Louis had been so afraid that, if child welfare had discovered their father no longer lived with them, his brother and sisters would've been sent to foster families.

Ian leaves saying he's spending the night al Charlie's. Louis feels drained, but knows that he can't grant himself the privilege of being tired right now.

*

When Louis arrives at The Jockey Greg tells him that Rebecca's mother arrived that morning from Liverpool to stay with her. Rebecca is now really close to the due date, and she could be going into labour any day now.

Louis dives into work as a means of escaping any thought about the crap day he's had. He moves behind the counter, following only muscle memory, pulling pint after pint and handing them to the regulars and the few faces he's not sure he's seen before. Everyone looks annoyed and tired tonight, and maybe he's just projecting, but every costumer looks dejected to Louis and he couldn't sympathise more.

He wipes the counter, collecting and readjusting beer mats. He dries pint glasses and the little Ikea wine glasses Rebecca adores. He's emerging from the steam of the glass washer when he sees Zayn and none other than Harry Styles occupy two free stools at the right corner of the bar. Shit. Louis had completely forgotten what Harry had told him before he left the library.

"Tommo, two pints of lager," Zayn says smoothly, as if he hadn't just walked into the pub Louis works in with Louis' mortal enemy. 

Louis stares at them for a second, shooting daggers at Zayn. Then he proceeds to attend to their order without saying a word. He sets the glasses in front of Zayn. Through the corner of his eyes Louis had seen Harry walking to the ancient juke box, where he is now fiddling with the buttons. Seconds later he hears a familiar guitar riff coming out of the old thing, which is unfortunately connected to the pub's audio system. 

"Cheers," Harry says when he's back on his stool. Nirvana's most known song is now playing in the background. Louis can't believe the year is 2015 and that that relic of a jukebox, with its collection of songs straight out of the Nineties, is still working.

Louis snorts, taking a look at Greg with mild exasperation. But Greg isn't paying attention to him, because he's staring at Harry with a loaded look. Harry tears his eyes away and starts downing his lager in large gulps. 

"Not all of us live in a constant 90s nostalgia, Harry. Life goes on, you know," Louis snides, wincing at the shouted part of the song. 

"Louis, behave," Sometimes Zayn sounds so much like Liam it is almost uncanny. 

When the flow of clients is waning, Louis goes back to the right corner of the bar. Zayn and Harry appear deep in conversation, Zayn propped up on his elbow, listening to a gesticulating Harry. 

"So, what brought you back in this shit hole of a town, Styles?" Louis butts in, not sorry at all for the surly look he receives from Zayn.

"Harry was just telling me," Zayn replies, gesturing to his glass for a refill. 

"Not that you care," Harry adds, while Louis pulls Zayn another pint.

"I'm not gonna lie, I don't care. I just like to pry." Harry scoffs at Louis' phoney smile, but he doesn't seem too displeased. 

"Well, there's not much to say, really. Me and Niall had a band going on in London. We had a few gigs here and there, started to gather an almost decent fanbase, released an independent EP. One of our demos ended up in the hands of a fairly well known manager, but in the end they didn't offer us a deal. That was a bit of a disappointment, especially for Niall. The other two bailed on us. So here I am." Despite his casual tone, Harry's voice betrayed his discomfort.

"And where's Niall?" Louis asks.

"Oh, you know. Just, around. Haven't really heard from him lately." Harry's response is vague and he's avoiding Louis' eyes.

"Wouldn't this be a good time to come back, though? Considering he's about to become an uncle," Zayn chimes in, sneaking a look towards Greg's back.

"Yeah," Harry says, dismissive.

Louis and Zayn exchange a look.

It always gets kind of complicated when the Horans are mentioned in a conversation. Niall's family lives in the most eastern area of Chatsworth, a part of the estate of even more ill repute than the rest of it. Greg has had virtually no contact with his family since he chose to pull out of the "family business", opting instead to run the local pub when its former owner left town. Only his mother still visits him regularly, especially following the announcement of Rebecca's pregnancy. Greg never talks about his family. Since Louis has been working there, he has seldom heard him talk about Niall, even though Niall, like Greg, had chosen a different path from what their family had offered them. Their other two brothers, on the other hand, proudly run the family business alongside Niall's father, and they are singlehandedly responsible for the illegal drugs influx of both Chatsworth and, to a certain extent, West Gorton. 

Although the Horans absolutely never set foot in The Jockey or in its immediate surroundings, Louis knows that Zayn's weed, the pills he sees punters exchange and drop into their glasses, the cocaine he sometimes finds traces of in the pub's toilet – all of those drugs are sold by Niall's family and a few unrelated coworkers. It had been a bit of a shock when the eldest and youngest offspring had turned their back on the family. 

Before Zayn or Louis can say anything to redirect the topic of the conversation, Louis' father staggers inside the pub and sits on the first available stool he sees. Louis remembers all to well the time his father had been so pissed he had been indefinitely barred from The Jockey. 

"My kid!" His father exclaims when he sees Louis. His eyes glint as if he were genuinely happy to see him.

"What are you doing here, Dad?"

"What do you think? Gimme a pint!"

Louis starts to make his way towards the tap, when Greg grabs his elbow.

"You know his tab was closed ages ago," he whispers.

"I'll put it on my tab, don't worry." Louis rolls his eyes.

Greg releases him and Louis returns with the pint for his father. 

"Dad, this isn't a soup kitchen, you know." 

"Shut up, Louis." 

His father begins to chat animatedly to the elderly woman on the stool next to him, Mrs. Reese, the former owner of the grocery shop Zayn's family now runs.

"Where would we be without pensions, eh? We're governed by gobshites, but who cares about that when old dogs like you are supported by our tax money. Cheers!" Mrs. Reese gingerly clinks her glass with his, and Louis' father continues to blabber about government and taxes. You don't even pay taxes, Louis wants to tell him, but he can't be arsed. 

Harry has been changing the music again, and something Louis doesn't recognise, but which he's pretty sure is an Oasis song, is now playing.

"We were saying, lads?" Louis is interrupting again, and he almost feels jealous that Zayn seems to be so close to Harry already. They are doing a really good job at catching up, and Louis doesn't like it. Zayn is _his_ best friend, Styles should back off. 

"How've things been with your dad lately?" Zayn asks.

Louis doesn't want to discuss this, especially not in front of Harry. "Shite, as usual. He threw a strop right before I came here earlier, so I hope he's not going to cause any scenes tonight." In a straightforward tone, looking at Harry, Louis adds, "As you may have noticed, my father is an alcoholic. And he's not quite right in the head." 

Louis stares at Harry, defiant. Harry's expression mellows and that winds Louis up even more. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't know," Harry says.

"Don't be sorry, Styles. He's a wanker," Louis snarls, disgust seeping through his words. 

"Well, he's still your father," Harry looks almost offended.

Zayn is watching them.

"I bloody well know that!" Louis yells.

"C'mon, Louis calm down. Harry's right." Zayn is unhelpful as usual.

"What the fuck, Zayn, you know perfectly well that I do care about him." Louis wishes he could just let this roll right off his back as he always does. 

"I know that, no need to get snarky," Zayn says, trying to calm him.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to come off as rude," Harry says, but his apology means nothing to Louis.

"You know fuck all about me, Styles. Just, keep that in mind, eh?" Louis snaps back. 

For a moment Harry seems to be at a loss for words, gaping at Louis.

Louis' head jerks towards the other end of the bar when a loud bang resonates above the general cacophony of Oasis and the pub chatter. A collective shriek rings through Louis' ears and he sees Mrs. Reese peer down where there was once his father's head. Louis hurries towards the figure sprawled on the floor. 

"I think he passed out," Greg comments, assessing that the stool isn't broken. 

Louis' father lies on the floor face down, his back rising and falling erratically. At least Louis knows he's not dead. Louis kneels down, pulling his father's shoulders until he manages to turn him around. Louis shakes him, considering slapping him to make him regain consciousness, but his father mercifully stirs awake on his own.

He's still muttering nonsense and Louis really hopes he won't start throwing up on the pub's floor. 

"Fuck, Greg I'm so sorry. I'll have to take him home. Sorry," Louis splutters, managing to lift his father into a sitting position. He still looks half asleep though.

"We'll take him." 

Louis raises his eyes and is met with Zayn and Harry looking down on him, Harry's expression unreadable. Zayn is the one who spoke.

"No, no. I can go." Louis isn't going to let them help him; he's totally got this. 

"No, Louis. Give us the keys." Zayn extends his open palm towards him, and Harry lifts Louis' father up in a swift motion, positioning his arm on his own shoulder as if the man weighs nothing. 

Louis is stupefied, unable to think properly. He stands up, maybe too fast, and for a second his vision is blurred and he feels light-headed. He hands Zayn his keys. He knows everyone's eyes are on them, on him. He feels his cheeks heat up with embarrassment, but he doesn't understand why he suddenly cares about his father making a fool of himself. It's not a rare occurrence. Everyone in Chatsworth knows that Chris Tomlinson is a boozer and a nutcase, so Louis is used to that. 

But Harry's still staring at him and for a moment Louis just wants to disappear into the abyss. He feels an oppressive weight in his chest, shame and humiliation rendering him breathless.

He snaps out of it when Harry starts walking towards the exit, stumbling under his father's weight, Zayn on the other side of him. Louis looks around and he's relieved when he sees that everyone has resumed their previous activities and they are minding their own business. Greg is talking in hushed tones with Mrs. Reese, and Louis starts to collect the glasses scattered on the empty tables. The flow of customers has finally begun to taper off and Louis focuses on making the most of the cleaning now, so he'll be able to go home as soon as possible. He feels like this day has already gone on forever.

Zayn looks chilled to the bone when he comes back.

"He collapsed on the sofa," he begins, looking tired, as Louis feels guilty. "The girls are home, I checked on them too." 

"You're an angel. Thanks." Louis is really glad Claire and Ruby are home, since he never gets to make sure first hand that they stay in on school nights. He hesitates, and then adds, "Where's Harry?"

"He went back to West Gorton." 

"I haven't even thanked him, he really didn't have to do that."

"He wanted to. Louis you have to understand that he's not the Antichrist, he's actually a really nice person. When will you realise that?" Zayn's exasperation won't make Louis like Harry all of a sudden.

"Well, one favour is not going to erase all the years we've spent devotedly loathing each other. I'm sure he still hates me as much as before, and add to that his probable pity now," Louis' reply is sarcastic, but on the inside he feels wretched. "Brilliant." 

"Bollocks! You're so thick sometimes," Zayn huffs, securing his beanie more snugly on top of his head. The tip of his nose is red. "I've gotta go, see you tomorrow."

*

_I'm in Chatsworth tomorrow. Wanna have lunch together? xxx_

Louis smiles down at his mobile, swiping his finger on the screen to unlock it. 

Lunch with Nick is his favourite euphemism. Lunch with Nick usually involves a lot of sex and only a little bit of food. They would take greasy fish and chips from the shop near the Malik store, bringing it home to eat in front of the telly. Nick always tries to convince Louis to go to a real restaurant or cafe, maybe in West Gorton or central Manchester, but Louis refuses every time. He doesn't want Nick to pamper him, and he's perfectly fine with eating fish and chips. 

When Nick arrives with the paper-clad fish and chips and gets out of his car Louis makes a double take. Nick's wearing his tortoise shell glasses, perched on top of his elegant nose, and Louis would be lying if he said he didn't find Nick wearing glasses extremely sexy. His whole businessman air is enough to make Louis' jeans feel tight, if he's honest. Despite living in Stretford, the company he works for has branched out into smaller franchises throughout Greater Manchester, hence why Nick finds himself relatively often in Chatsworth or West Gorton.

"I'm free until four," Nick declares as soon as he's past the doorway. He's smiling down at Louis, holding the fish and chips with one hand, bringing the other to brush Louis' cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Louis smiles, taking the food and going to set it on the coffee table. The telly is on but it’s almost muted, emitting only a low hum. Louis closes the front door, making sure to leave the keys inside in case someone got home early of his father decided to make an appearance.

When Louis starts to playfully feed Nick some of his chips. Nick retaliates by licking his fingers. Louis feels Nick's tongue lapping his thumb and index, the sensation going straight to his cock. 

Louis extracts the paper envelope from Nick's grip, sets it on the table once again, and climbs onto Nick's lap.

"Hey, I was eating that," Nick complains, but he's smirking. "And you've barely touched yours."

"I don't care about that stupid fish, I want the big fish." Louis punctuates his words with a light squeeze to Nick's groin and Nick's eyes darken. Louis carefully removes his glasses and places them on the coffee table. It's so easy to see how much Nick wants him, how much his body reacts to Louis' every movement.

Louis leans in, mouth first, letting his tongue taste the salt on Nick's lips. He wraps his arms around Nick's neck and starts to kiss him properly, tangling his hands in Nick's styled hair. When Louis pauses to regain breath, he admires the way Nick's formerly perfect quiff is now all messed up. Louis feels Nick's body pliant beneath his hands, Louis' thighs tightly secured around his hips. Louis dives down to bite the scruff on Nick's pulse point.

"Oh god, you smell so good. What's that?" Louis inhales deeply, Nick's hair and clothes smell like something celestial.

"It's just coconut body butter and a little sprinkle of the cologne I always wear, love." Nick replies in between kisses. "Do you want me to bring you a bottle next time?" 

"No," Louis is starting to feel impatient, his cock throbbing against his flies. "I like it on you, I don't think it would compliment me."

"Shut up, you smell amazing without anything. Your skin smells amazing."

Louis feels himself blush, but Nick's reverent tone unsettles something in his stomach, and he feels the urge to do something already, rather than just snog like two little lovebirds. 

He makes quick work of Nick's blazer and starts unbuttoning his dark grey shirt. He feels Nick's eyes staring at his face, but he keeps his eyes focused on his fingers undoing each button until he can spread his hands on top of Nick's chest. He presses his fingertips to Nick's warm skin, feeling every muscle, the hard nubs of his nipples, caressing over his shoulders until he takes off his shirt completely. Nick's hands come to rest on his hips and he lifts Louis' jumper and tosses it to the side of the sofa. Once both their tops are bare, Nick pulls him closer, and Louis goes easily, feeling as horny as ever, responding sloppily to Nick's open-mouthed kiss. 

Nick always makes Louis feel so good, and it's a comforting sensation that they've gotten to know each other's bodies so well. Louis knows what Nick goes crazy for. He knows that if he whispers breathily into his ear, or licks his neck while they fuck, Nick will emit strangled groans and moans in return. That always sends him over the edge. Their intimacy has grown over the months they’ve been seeing each other, but neither of them has ever questioned what they have. Their sexual chemistry is undeniable, but that's it. 

Nick is clingy today, and Louis can somehow sense that he has the upper hand. He ends up riding Nick until his legs give out, then Nick fucks up into him until Louis comes untouched all over Nick's chest. Nick insists on cuddling on the sofa and Louis complies, not minding Nick's warm limbs tangled with his. After a while, Louis' resting his head in Nick's lap, his eyes closed. They are still only in their pants, but Nick has thrown a blanket over Louis' body when he had started to shiver a little. The draught seeping in from the closed window is to blame for that.

"You gonna doze off on me?" Nick whispers, perhaps fearing Louis might already be asleep. 

"No, I'm just resting my eyes. I can't sleep in the afternoon, not even after you've tired me out," Louis chuckles, making a show of yawning and nuzzling his nose in Nick's belly button. 

"You still have trouble sleeping?" 

"Yeah, sometimes. I can't fall asleep and then I wake up at arse o'clock," Louis mutters against Nick's skin.

"I used to take sleeping pills. I'll see if I still have some, or I could ask my doctor for a prescription." 

Nick is carding his fingers through Louis' hair, petting his fringe and trailing his fingertips over his cheek. Louis suddenly feels the urge to bat Nick's hand away. He feels his skin prickling, his own hand twitching where it's resting on the textured fabric of the settee.

"No need for that, Nick," he replies, almost stern. "I don't want to take any medication." And I don't need you to worry, he wants to add. 

"Have you tried weed?"

Louis wants to snort out loud, but ends up answering anyway. "It only makes it worse. It gives me palpitations. Really, don't worry about me."

"I do, though,” Nick cuts him off. “Your father's an arsehole. You're twenty-one, Louis. You still need someone to look after you. You're doing a fabulous job with your sisters and Ian, but you deserve to be cared for, too." He's crouching towards Louis, speaking softly into his ear, "I'd like to take care of you."

Louis goes stiff under Nick's hands, his eyes wide. He doesn't need to be taken care of. He manages just fine by himself, has for three years now. He wants to tell Nick that he doesn't need his help, he doesn't need him to offer him presents, he doesn't need his money or his worry. What he needs from him is only a few hours of escape from his life, a moment that is only his, where he can forget all his responsibilities for a bit. A few hours where he just focuses on feeling good and making Nick feel good. He doesn't say any of this.

Louis gets up and wraps the blanket around his shoulders. 

"I need to take a shower," he says, taking a couple of steps towards the staircase and stopping to stare down at Nick. Louis wants to say that Nick needs to just get dressed and leave, but something in Nick's eyes causes the words to die in his throat.

"Wait, I need to tell you something," Nick starts, looking nervous.

"Ok, go on." Louis is still standing half-naked in the middle of the living room. Nick starts to put his clothes back on, and Louis can smell the scent of clean, expensive fabric even from that distance. 

"Ok,” Nick says when he's completely dressed, looking Louis directly in the eyes. “I've been seeing someone." 

"You're dating someone?" Louis repeats, dumbfounded.

"Not really, but we've been seeing each other."

"And you're telling me this because – " Louis trails off.

Something flashes in Nick's eyes at Louis' words. He sighs, his mouth twitches and then sets in a thin line. He fixes his glasses on his nose and starts to put on his shoes, expression undecipherable.

"You want to stop seeing me, then?" Louis prompts, because he genuinely doesn't know where this is going and he doesn't like the silence. 

"No, nevermind. Forget I told you." Nick dismisses him, making his way to the front door.

"Ok," Louis says, but he doesn't sound convincing, even to his own ears.

"I'll see you soon." The usual words sound strained coming from Nick's stiff lips. He is hardly looking at Louis, and Louis is puzzled.

Nick leaves, slamming the car door shut and not sparing a glance to Louis, who is observing him from the doorway, still only clad in the dark wool blanket. Louis goes back inside, has a long shower that doesn't help him to clear his head, and makes himself a cup of tea. By the time the girls are home from school, he's not thinking about Nick anymore, and although he still has an odd feeling in his gut, he's not quite able to put his finger on it.

*

On Thursday Louis spends the morning rifling through books in the library archive, changing labels. Every time he extracts a book from the foldable shelf, it emits a cloud of dust that speckles in the timid sunlight filtering through the floor to ceiling windows. He’s already decided that the archive is his favourite part of the entire building. When Miss Evans had told him he would be working there for that week, he had imagined a long room cramped with multi tiered shelves of ancient and boring books; dim lights, humid air and a grim atmosphere. Turns out the archive is actually on the top floor of the building, and the windows are similar to those Miss Evans has in her office with the same view over the park.

The silence up there is what really gets to him. Generally speaking, the library is a pretty quiet place. However, there's always faint noises coming from outside, on the ground floor at least; there are people flicking pages, someone yawning, fingers tapping away on a laptop, the occasional hushed chatter, and the scowls that flit between the eyes of patrons in a silent complain. But in the archive room it feels like any sound from the outside world has been banned, and Louis can almost hear the steady beat of his heart in his ears.

Louis spends his lunch break sitting on one of the wooden benches, amongst the dormant poplar trees. He cradles a paper cup of scalding hot tea in his hands, a closed book resting in his lap. It's _Cement Garden_ , but he hasn't starting reading it yet. He blames the lack of concentration outside of work hours, promising himself he'll start it as soon as he has a spare moment. He feels himself drift into an odd state of calmness. He closes his eyes, relishing the weak sunrays hitting the portion of his face not covered by his scarf. It's a weird sensation; he doesn’t often feel _alright_.

Louis sees someone approaching him, and, as soon as he recognises the long hair under the hat, he feels that peacefulness spilling out of his limbs, like lukewarm water sliding down the bath plug. It's the first time he’s seen Harry without Liam or Zayn around. Harry is carrying a book too, under his arm, but Louis can't make out its title.

"Hi," Harry sounds uncertain, as if surprised by Louis' presence there. He hesitates, swaying from left foot to right, conflicted, looking undecided whether he should keep going and leave Louis alone or say something else.

"Hey," Louis says after a beat, tensing up slightly. 

Neither of them says anything, and when Harry looks on the verge of walking away, Louis speaks.

"I have to thank you for the other night," Louis says, unwilling to use more words than necessary. He holds Harry's gaze and sees his brows furrow a bit.

"You don't have to," Harry puts the book he was cradling under his arm between his thighs, while his hands fly up to his beanie adjusting it on his pale forehead, "It wasn't really a big deal, don't worry."

"Well, regardless. I disagree, it was a big deal." Harry is shaking his head, but Louis is firm when he goes on, "And I owe you."

"You don't owe me, really." 

"I do. And I hope I get to pay my dues quite soon, since I hate owing. And I especially hate owing _you_ ," Louis says, bringing the cup to his lips and letting the hot liquid burn his tongue.

"Oh, well then. You're an arsehole. If it's so awful to owe me something, why don't you just fuck off." Harry looks deflated rather than pissed off.

"Because I promised Liam I'd try to be friendly with you," Louis blurts out, at once regretting it.

"Oh, you promised Liam." Harry's voice raises and he almost yells, "You realise you're a complete dickhead? I almost regret helping you if you still treat me like shit for no reason."

Louis is silent for a beat, trying to avoid shouting in return. He doesn't want to cause a scene, and he remembers how the park was so blissfully quite before Harry arrived. He really misses that tranquility.

"Trust me, I have so many reasons," he finally manages to reply, tone as muted as possible.

"No, you're just petty and mean," Harry lowers his voice too. "It was maybe ok to hate each other when we were kids, when we knew fuck all about life. We're supposed to be adults now, though, aren’t we?"

"What the fuck do you know about that? About being adults? You fucked off from this God-forsaken place as soon as we finished college, because you wanted to become a little rock star. But your great dream hasn't taken you very far, has it? You're back in this shithole. And just like the rest of us, you're fucked." 

"Do you think it was easy to leave? Do you think it was easy to live in London by myself? You have no idea what Niall and I have gone through, and it's not my fault if your life is so shitty you have to take it out on other people." 

Harry is still standing in front of Louis, the book clutched firmly in his hands, knuckles white. They glare at each other, Harry's cheeks pink and his eyes wide, angry. 

"Don't you fucking dare talk about my life. You don’t know anything about me, _anything_." Louis hisses between his teeth.

"As long as you act like people must treat you with golden gloves because you think you had it worse than the rest of us, than _me_ , I doubt I'll ever get to know anything about you." Harry's shoulders have sagged even more, his back hunched. He sounds resigned.

Louis doesn't get him. He doesn't get why Harry thinks it's ok to talk to him like that. It's really not. And no one could blame Louis for his reaction, right? Harry has no right whatsoever to even utter a single word about Louis' life or about Louis' family. He's no one, yet it's absurd how much his words upset Louis. He can't have that.

"I gotta get back to work." Louis stands up, collects his book and half empty cup, and makes to leave, belatedly adding, "Some of us have an actual job."

"Fuck off, Louis," Harry spits, but it's weak, so weak to Louis' ears that he doesn't even bother to acknowledge it, making his way down the cobbled path to the park's exit. 

Louis is furious, and when he is back in the library he immediately sends a text to both Liam and Zayn:

_If you ever bring Styles to The Jockey again consider the friendship between me and you over._

He knows he's exaggerating, that it's the anger speaking, but he can't help it. He hates him; he hates him with every fibre of his being. How could he have the guts to speak to him like that, after Louis had thanked him and said that he owes him? How could he have the nerve to speak about Louis' life when he knows nothing about it?

Louis feels blessed when he resumes his work in the archive, diving into the task at hand with all his being, trying to keep the image of Harry's stupid face and the sound of his stupid, meaningless words out of his mind.

*

Liam is the first one to arrive at The Jockey that night, and Louis immediately knows, from his expression alone, that he's not happy about him. Neither Liam nor Zayn had replied to his angry text from earlier. Always the same brain, these two.

"Why are you chuckling to yourself?" Liam greets him, eyeing him with suspicion. "Do I look funny?"

"No, no. You look fabulous, Payno," Louis smirks. "Where's your other half?" 

"What the fuck are you on about?" Liam plonks down on the stool in front of Louis.

"You know who I'm talking about." Louis is wiping the counter, more for the sake of it than any other reason. The Jockey is almost empty that night, but he can't let boredom get the best of him. 

"You're such a twat sometimes I honestly wonder why I'm still your friend." Liam rests his head on his hands, observing Louis' swift movements, not looking lively either. 

"Fuck off, you love me." Louis proceeds to wipe the brass taps of the draught. Greg would be so proud of him if he could see him right now.

"I do. I think that's the main problem." Liam is tapping his fingers on the wooden counter. He purses his lips as if in concentration, and then he says, "So, what happened with Harry?"

Louis sighs. He drops the filthy rag in the sink, lathers his hands with some soap and washes them.

"Well, let's just say I met him today and it wasn't exactly an amicable situation."

"Why not?" Liam sighs, disgruntled.

"He gets on my nerves. He began to spiel his opinions about my life. About _my_ life, who does he think he is? Just because he did me a favour, that I didn't even ask for, he thinks he can lecture me and even expects me to stop being a jerk to him? No way. No fucking way." 

"I think you are taking this a bit too far, Louis. You should let him off the hook, stop bitching about everything he says or does. Believe me, he doesn't want you to hate him."

"What do you mean? Have you two talked about me?" Louis says, baffled, his voice going higher on the last syllable.

Liam shrugs, like he considers him and Harry talking about Louis as a perfectly normal occurrence. Louis doesn't agree. 

"Yes, a bit. He told me what happened the other night – with your dad."

"Did he gloat?"

"Over what?" Liam asks, exasperation pouring from his tone. "Louis, you realise he's not like that," Liam says, evening his voice out and leveling Louis with a serious stare. "It almost looks like –"

Liam falters.

"Almost looks like what, Liam?" Louis urges him. 

"It's like you're projecting your own hate onto him. You are the one who loathes him and never had a good word about him, and never spared a chance to make a fool of him during P.E. You always made everything into a challenge, whether it was about which of you had the best grades or who played footie better."

"I certainly played better," Louis replies.

"Fuck, listen to me, at least. You have to stop being such a prick around him. As in, put some real effort into it. Then you'll realise that kid isn't that bad. Can you trust me for once?" Liam looks almost pleading, and Louis only wants to ask him why he cares so much whether he and Harry get along or not. 

"You never trusted me about Zayn," Louis points out, even if he's not sure himself what his point actually is.

"Stop holding this against me. If anything, it's the other way around between me and Zayn. I've tried, multiple times, to bury the hatchet once and for all. But it has proven useless every time. When I think we could actually start getting along or at least stop insulting each other, he starts taking the piss or mocking me, and we're back to square one," Liam replies, bitterly, hunching his shoulders forward, elbows resting on the bar. 

While Liam sulks, Louis gets back to serving that night's scarce clients. Lilah, Zayn's sister, and Claire make their way over and join Liam. 

"Give us a pint." Claire says, smirking cheekily at Louis.

"Nope." Louis points to the faded, old sign hung behind the counter stating they won't serve alcohol to people under eighteen. That sign is ignored nine times out of ten anyway.

"Louis, I'm turning eighteen in three months! Don't be ridiculous," she protests, looking at Liam, trying to get him to help her.

"Ask me again in three months," Louis says, trying to keep a straight, grave face.

"Don't be unfair, Louis," Liam is smiling, knowing that the charade is almost over. 

"Money first, then maybe I'll give you your pint." Louis sticks with the act, reaching out with his open palm.

Claire swats his hand away, giggling. "Put it on your tab, you knobhead."

"You're insufferable, Claire," Louis snorts, attending to his sister's orders. "Where's Ruby?"

"She’s cooped up in our room, reading some boring novel," she replies, doing little to conceal her horror. Claire would rather get a buzzcut than spend an evening reading.

Louis chatters with Liam between serving clients, while Lilah and Claire watch videos on YouTube. Louis gets gradually more and more curious about what the girls are watching, so he and Liam end up watching the videos of Claire doing her own make-up tutorials.

"Oh, that looks awesome babe. I didn't know you were so good with make-up." Louis is genuinely surprised; he had no idea Claire actually had that much talent with cosmetics.

"You've never let me do you. You'd look so pretty with some mascara and your complexion is so perfect, you never had a pimple in your life."

"Exactly. I'll let you put make-up on my perfect complexion only over my dead body." 

"Love this bronzer, Claire. Must've cost a fortune," Lilah comments, while another video starts and video-Claire explains which products she’s going to use.

Louis' ears perk up. 

"Claire, how much did all that stuff cost you?" 

"I only buy stuff that's on sale. Only when it's like, fifty percent off or more," Claire answers, but her mouth twitches and Louis can tell she's lying.

"How much did they cost?" He repeats, turning up his big brother tone.

"Stop nagging me, Louis," Claire whines, burying her face into her glass.

Lilah and Liam are looking at each other with matching puzzled expressions. Claire lifts her face and glares at Louis.

"Ok, well." After a long exhale, Claire says, "Louise gave me most of the products I use in my videos."

"Louise Bell?" Louis asks in disbelief.

"Lady Louise?" Liam yelps, barking out a laugh. 

Louis scowls at him. "This is not funny, you wanker." 

"She just likes me, ok? She was friends with mum."

"The fact she was friends with mum isn't a strong argument in her favour, you know. She's a whore,” Louis snides.

"Shut up! She isn't a whore, you dick. She's an escort."

"Details." 

"It's not a detail. She works in a respectable business."

"I never thought I'd hear someone say Chatsworth's brothel is a “respectable business”!" Louis exclaims.

"Don't you have to work?" Claire spits, but her logic is weak; there are only a few regulars dished out between the stools and the tables, and only a couple of people playing darts.

"You're almost eighteen, as you were so eager to inform us earlier. Just know that I'm not happy about this."

"When did you turn into a prude? You know Louise is a good person. It's not like she's gonna lure me into becoming an escort myself or summat."

"It better be so." Louis knows Louise really is a good person, but he's just so over-protective of his sisters that he doesn't trust anyone around them. 

"C'mon, Louis. Drop it, I'm sure Claire knows what she's doing. And she's right, I like Louise. She used to do my nan's hair, she's proper nice," Liam offers, earning a smile from a pouty Claire. "Her services were really welcomed." 

Lilah, Louis and Claire all burst out laughing. 

"What? No, I mean, I've never experienced her services so, I don't know," Liam hurries to say, but the other three don't stop cackling. "Oh, sod off, all of you."

"Ok, enough of embarrassing yourself Liam," Louis eventually announces, once the laughing fit is over.

Right in that moment, they are joined by a stern looking Zayn. 

"Nevermind," Louis mutters.

Zayn barely acknowledges the others’ presence, his gaze fixed on Louis. "You and I need to talk, mate." 

"I've grilled him already," Liam informs him. 

"I'm sure he needs a bit more grilling, Liam," Zayn replies, not even bothering to look at him, eyes still locked with Louis'. "Can you take a smoke break right now?" 

Louis looks around, the place still semi-deserted. He nods and follows Zayn outside. 

January is ruthlessly cold, especially on nights like this, when the clear sky gives way to a relentless cold wind. It takes Louis more than a few tries to light up his cig without the flame getting blown out by a gush of freezing air. 

"That wasn't cool, man," Zayn says.

"I know, it was a stupid message. I should've thought twice before sending it." Louis takes small, shallow drags while pressing the tip of his tattered trainer in the dirt.

"Harry is my mate, Louis. You have to accept that. We're all living in this hell of a place, and we have to have each other's backs. You promised me, Louis. Even if we were so pissed you barely remember it, I remember what that time was like. I remember it perfectly, Louis. I'm not gonna lose you over something like this again. I know you were joking, but it wasn't cool. We've been there before. Fuck. We hardly talked for almost a year, it was the worst time of my life." Zayn flicks the ash off his cigarette and then inhales deeply, eyes trained on the ground.

Louis feels like crap, the gravity of what he did earlier only now hitting him. His and Zayn's friendship had already been in danger in the past, and it was so stupid of Louis to joke about it and expect Zayn not to take it personally.

"You're right Zayn, I know. It was a lame joke, a very badly worded one. I love you, I don't want to lose you again."

"I know you don't, that's why I'm asking you to try to cut the crap and stop being a dick to Harry." Zayn holds a hand up, motioning for Louis not to interrupt him, "and before you say anything about Liam. I will try my best to tolerate him."

"You literally almost jumped at each other's throats last week," Louis laughs, trying to lighten the mood.

"I promise I won't provoke him anymore, I promise I won't take the piss or insult him without a valid reason. That's more than enough, right? I will _tolerate_ him." Zayn smirks, his smile mirrored on Louis' face. 

There's nothing Louis hates more than fighting with Zayn, or not being on perfectly good terms with him. He can't really explain why, but he has always considered him the most important person in his life. The only person he is sure will always be there, no matter what happens. Louis can always picture himself being best friends with Zayn; whether they are twenty, fifty or seventy, Louis _knows_ that he won't ever stop loving him. And no matter what shit they've been through, and everything that no doubt is yet to come, that is one of the few things Louis is truly sure of.

He would never admit that, because no one is allowed to know Louis can actually be a right sap. Except maybe Ruby; Louis usually reserves all his sappiness for her alone. So, even if he can't picture himself telling Zayn how important he is to him, he knows it's the same for Zayn, and sometimes certain things are better left unspoken.

"Ok, you tosser." Louis starts to make his way back into the pub. "Starting now, I'll keep an eye on you two."

"Pinky promise," Zayn extends his pinky and Louis laces their fingers together for a second, before they both start giggling.

“Pinky promise.” Louis repeats.

*

_No. Fucking. Way._

Louis scoffs and hits send. There is no way in this world that he is going to celebrate Harry's birthday with the lads by getting smashed in the backroom of Zayn's shop, while acting like he doesn't totally hate the birthday boy. It's preposterous that Zayn even invited him. Had he genuinely thought that Louis would say yes? 

Admittedly, it is Louis' only night off, and he had been looking forward to spending the evening differently from all the other days of the week. Maybe getting pissed himself, instead of watching other people gulping down alcohol as if there’s no tomorrow. But no, he definitely isn't going to a subpar party in a dark room, cramped with the others, to celebrate the king of assholes.

But Louis is famous for his weak will.

He knows he’s fucked, and he mentally curses himself and his inability to stay in one night and go to bed early. He’d tried, he really had. But, not at all surprisingly, he wasn't even the least bit tired, and that’s how he found himself getting dressed to go to the stupid birthday party. 

It's 10 pm and he’s standing outside the backdoor of the Maliks' shop. There's a faint bass sound coming from inside, in all likelihood Zayn's RnB music. Louis stubs out his cigarette, wills himself to look like the picture of collectedness and confidence, and opens the door. He steps into a small corridor lighted in fluorescent green, and walks through a second door. 

The shop's back room isn't large, yet maybe a bit more spacious than the one at The Jockey. The only decorations are two old, ratty settees, an iron, mostly rusted, desk, and a few chairs. Zayn's laptop is resting on the desk alongside several cans of beer and two nondescript bottles of clear liquid, most likely vodka. Louis scans the place; there is no sign of Harry. There is, however, Aiden, sitting on a chair next to two girls Louis knew from school. They are peering into a paper cup, while Liam sits on another chair, scribbling something onto a piece of paper which he then proceeds to drop into said cup. 

"Mateeee, you made it. I'm so happy." Zayn appears out of nowhere and puts his arm around Louis' shoulder. He looks like he’s already smoked one joint too many, but in the semi-darkness Louis can't clearly make out his face.

"I had no other choice," Louis replies ruefully. "Hi," he calls out, waving in the general direction of the others.

"Just in time for the cake," Zayn squeals in delight. "I'll go fetch it." He lets go of Louis' shoulder and bolts to the door, recoiling when it springs open, almost knocking into him. 

A wobbly-legged Harry makes his way into the dim light, while Zayn walks past him with a scowl. Harry looks surprised, eyes slightly glazed by weed, as he stumbles and comes to a stop in front of Louis' amused expression.

Harry straightens up and clears his throat. "Hi."

"Happy birthday," Louis intones, trying to sound casual, but staring Harry down.

Harry smiles for a second, as if their row from the other day had never happened, but he quickly recovers. He stares Louis out in return, his expression serious, and he mutters a stilted, "Thank you."

"I made the cake!" Liam chimes in from the corner, and Louis notices several other paper scraps lying on the desk before him.

"What's up with these slips of paper, Payno?" 

"We’re gonna play 'Never Have I Ever'," Sophie exclaims, looking at Louis with big green eyes. 

If Louis were into girls, he'd definitely be into Sophie. Back in school, she had been one of those girls every boy had a crush on, and who everyone always fawned over. When they were in Year 12 she'd started dating a guy in the year above, and it had looked like they were going to be together forever. But Louis had recently heard they’d split up. Although Louis doesn’t see Sophie much anymore, they’d started uni together, and Sophie is now in her last year, studying Sociology.

"You have to write five sentences on those slips, then we'll take out one piece at a time. That way the game won't be too biased," Amy supplies, fluttering her dark eyelashes at Louis, who starts to laugh.

"I'll write 'Never have I ever punched my boyfriend while playing footie', shall I?” Louis says with mirth, knowing that that would force Amy to drink. 

"Fuck off, it was one time. Anyone in my place would've done the same." 

"Not his fault. Everyone knew you were dangerous."

"Still am," Amy jokes with a wink. 

Louis thinks for a minute, before jotting down five sentences on five pieces of paper, trying to make his handwriting legible.

Zayn comes back with a simple single tier chocolate cake. Everyone sings 'Happy Birthday', Louis only mouthing the words. He smirks nonetheless while Harry basks in the attention and blows out the lone candle. Zayn starts to cut the cake, but he is doing a rather poor job. Liam pussyfoots around him, wanting to help, until Zayn shoots him a begrudging look and hands him the knife. Liam distributes a slice to everyone and Louis' stomach growls happily; he had only had a meagre cheese sandwich for tea, as he hadn't been arsed to fix himself a proper dinner. 

"It's delicious, thank you so much Liam." Harry looks like he might be on the verge of tears. He hugs Liam with one arm and licks his plastic fork clean.

When everyone has devoured their slice of cake, Zayn announces, "Alright, time to start drinking!"

The room erupts with sudden cheer, and Louis definitely feels too sober for this. Everyone finds a comfortable spot to sit down, Zayn, Sophie and Harry on a sofa, Aiden and Amy settling on the smaller one. Louis and Liam occupy two chairs, positioning them so that they are sitting in a kind of circle. 

"Ok, so we thought it would be easier if we don't do a shot every time, so that we can make the game longer," Amy explains. "So instead we’ll drink a glass of beer," she continues, holding out a medium sized plastic glass, "and on the next round a shot," she points to the shot glass in her other hand. 

"Only because you girls can't stomach plain vodka," Zayn chips in, scoffing, while Aiden lets out a chuckle that dies in his throat when Amy shoots him a dirty look. 

"You sure about that, Malik?" Amy sneers.

"Want to make this into a challenge for the last one standing between us two?" Zayn retaliates, eyes glinting with mischief.

"I'll consider your offer, if you haven’t passed out by the end of the game," Amy replies, and that's all she has to add apparently. Everyone prepares their glasses, passing around the bottles of vodka.

Louis turns towards Liam, a big question mark on his face. Liam telepathically knows the reason of Louis' puzzlement. 

"Just for a night. It won't fuck up my schedule too much if I drink once in a while." Liam shrugs.

"Okay," Zayn tries to gather everyone's attention, "as the birthday boy, will you do the honours, Harry?" Zayn passes him the paper cup, and Harry fishes out the first statement.

"Wait!" Amy shouts. Harry falls silent while everyone's eyes fly to her direction. "Sorry I forgot one of the rules. If only one person drinks, they have to tell the story behind their answer." She grins and motions for Harry to continue.

Harry clears his throat and states, "Never have I ever gotten a tattoo." 

Harry, Zayn and Amy drink.

"That was lame, who wrote it?" Zayn inquires, but no one answers. 

Harry hands the cup to Sophie, who rummages a bit before extracting the next piece of paper.

"Never have I ever watched porn with someone else," and she starts to giggle. Everyone but Amy drinks, Sophie sputtering loudly after downing her shot of vodka. Louis' throat burns, but he tries to keep up a cool face, knowing it will only get easier to drink as the game goes on. His gaze crosses with Liam's for a split second, and Louis is certain he, too, is thinking about the time they watched gay porn together because Liam wanted to know 'how it works'. 

"I want to know more than if you did something or not," Zayn complains, earning a light smack on the arm from Amy. "Heyyy!" he drawls, massaging the offended limb, but he soon smiles, realising it's his turn. "This better be a good one," he grumbles, pulling out a piece of paper. 

"Never have I ever," Zayn stops, and sends a shit-eating grin in Louis' direction, "had sex with someone ten years older than me, or more."

Louis drinks, while Zayn looks at him expectantly, convinced Louis will have to tell everyone about Nick. But Louis is surprised to see that he is not the only one drinking. Harry is halfway through his glass of beer and their eyes lock for a second, but Harry's expression doesn't give anything away.

Zayn emits a huff of exasperation. "Please, can you tell us your stories? I am dying over here. I need answers. Harry, please."

Harry chortles and shakes his head, clearly amused by Zayn's frustration. Louis sees that Sophie is staring at Harry, her lips arched in a coy grin, her body curled up on the settee like a kitten ready to leap onto him. Louis suspects he knows how this night might end, since he has never see anyone resist Sophie’s advances, at least not any bloke into girls. 

"Never have I ever been in love," Aiden states, and a collective scoff resonates. "Who wrote this cheesy shit?"

"I did," Sophie admits, succeeding in not choking on her vodka again.

Louis registers that the only other person to drink is Harry, and he's not surprised. He seems like a love at first sight type. Once again, Sophie surreptitiously observes Harry while he wipes his mouth.

"Never have I ever been unfaithful to a significant other." Amy snorts, "Please tell me who wrote this. The wording is brilliant."

Harry timidly raises his hand, and everyone joins Amy's outburst of laughter.

The only person drinking is Sophie, and Zayn instantly looks at her with triumph in his eyes.

"C'mon, speak up," he demands in a mocking tone, tilting his head towards Sophie who has turned a deep shade of crimson.

"Well, I was with Tony for many years. I found out during the last month of our relationship that he’d cheated on me with different people, so I slept with a random guy. It was pretty awful to be honest." She squirms in her seat, eyeing everyone as if challenging them to say something. 

"This is turning into a therapy session," Amy comments.

"Shut up, this is gold," Zayn says, rubbing his hands together.

"You're just so nosy," Amy smacks him again. This time Zayn grabs her hand to stop her, but he doesn't let go of it once the play fight is over.

"Everyone shut up," Louis admonishes, "it's my turn." He pokes in the cup for a few moments before extracting a tiny slip of paper scribbled with an elegant handwriting. "Never have I ever fantasised about anyone in this room." Louis thinks this is an odd one, but it spikes his curiosity, and his eyes roam the room. Everyone but him is drinking.

"Well, this is interesting." Sophie comments, blushing again. Her eyes stray in Harry's direction, but Harry is staring intently at the floor, clutching the empty cup so tight he's warping it. Liam is also wearing an odd expression. 

"Louis," Zayn says, pretending to assume a stern tone. "You've never fantasised about me? No point in continuing this game if you aren't going to be completely sincere." 

"Zayn, sod off. You're not my type."

"You don't have enough of a fancy job or a fancy hairstyle to be his type," Liam pipes in, his voice teasing, but careful. 

"You two are the worst. If uniting against me is the only way you can get along then I'd rather you kept on hating each other." Louis stares at them, frowning.

"Louis, do you have a boyfriend?" Sophie chirps.

Harry's eyes jerk in Louis' direction, his expression indecipherable. Louis sighs; he hadn’t intended to be outed like this to someone he isn't even friends with. Liam and Zayn look worried, but Louis is impassive.

"No, Sophie. I don't. Liam and Zayn like to play embarrassing parents, that's all."

His two best friends are both scowling at him, but Louis is too caught up in trying to make sense of Harry's frown. Is he judging Louis for being gay? Or is he just surprised? The alcohol in Louis' system is subtly sneaking up on his mind, making it hard to focus on a single thought. He hands the paper cup to Liam, urging him to carry on with the game.

After another round of questions – never have I ever been camping in a tent, had sex in a tent, gone skinny dipping, worn mascara, had a threesome – everyone sounds tispy and distracted. The enthusiasm for the game soon wanes, and Louis is itching for a cigarette. 

Louis slips out and lights up. He’s soon joined by Harry.

"I didn't think you'd be here," Harry says, drawing out his vowels, alcohol making his voice even deeper.

"Yeah, sorry for ruining your birthday party with my presence. I really had nowhere else to go, except The Jockey. But I'm there every other night. I just needed to get out." Louis studies the empty alley. The night is eerily quiet now, the only sounds being Louis' exhales of smoke and the faint rustle of Harry rolling a cigarette.

"You think you're so special, I hardly even noticed you were there," Harry says. Louis' head snaps. Harry's tone was serious, but a small smirk plays on his lips. "Don't worry, I'm glad you came. And I know what you mean. Sometimes I need to get out too, vent to someone."

"I don't need to vent. Just needed a night out," Louis retorts, but it sounds grating even to his own ears. "I was a jerk the other day. But I meant it when I said I owe you."

Harry's properly smirking, his lips curled up and his teeth showing. Alcohol tinged his cheeks with a rosy shade. He lights the cigarette without completely dropping his grin, and the tiny flame illuminates his engraved dimple. 

"Louis Tomlinson, apologising. Didn't think I'd ever see the day."

"Who said I'm apologising? I never said I'm sorry." 

Harry looks deep in thought for a few seconds.

"What if you pay me back by conceding a truce?" he offers, taking a seat on the curb. 

Louis laughs and sits down too, not answering Harry's question. They smoke in silence for a while. 

"And it was pretty sad when no one but me drank at the camping question. And I had to tell that embarrassing story about my sister." Harry is slurring a bit, and Louis feels oddly relaxed. Harry's voice, when it isn't derogatory, or defensive, or teasing, sounds deep and soothing. Louis feels the long day starting to weigh him down; he reckons he could fall asleep right there on the pavement.

"We could go one day?" 

"Where? What?" Louis jolts. He wasn't paying attention to Harry's words.

"Us lads. We could all go camping one day," Harry repeats.

"Maybe when there's not such a high chance of freezing our bollocks off. And I doubt Zayn and Liam would be thrilled by the idea. Even if we've come to this 'truce'," Louis makes air quotes, "doesn't mean they're going to follow our excellent example."

"So, you agree?" Harry brightens up.

"Yes, we could do with a truce. See how long it'll last." 

When both have finished smoking, Louis stands up, stretching his sore legs. He’s knackered, a bit tipsy and in dire need of sleep. He hopes his missing energy won't suddenly return when he slides under the covers. 

"I'm going to say goodbye to the others," Louis yawns, stretching his back.

"At your own risk," Harry says, also getting up.

"Why?" 

"Aiden left. Amy and Zayn are probably shagging in the toilet, and it looked like Sophie and Liam could be next in line." 

"What? I thought Sophie was gonna make a move on you?" Louis can't believe what he’s just heard; he's usually right about who's going to end up snogging who.

"Maybe, but I made it clear I wasn't interested," Harry replies, sounding vague.

Louis is taken aback, and wants to ask Harry how on earth it’s possible to not like Sophie. But Harry's intense stare makes his curiosity vacillate, while an odd feeling of recognition sparks at the back of his mind. 

"So, we should just leave?" Louis is already backtracking towards the main road.

"Yeah, can you manage to get home safe?" Harry teases.

"Fuck off, Styles. I'm not a damsel in distress. Goodnight."

Louis walks away from a smirking Harry, wishing he could punch out all of Harry's teeth just to see that foxy smile drop from his stupidly big mouth.

*

Timothy James Horan is born on the first snow day of the year.

Louis has spent all morning watching the snow fall from the window of his bedroom, worried about where the hell his father might be. The house is freezing cold, and although the radiators are piping hot, they don’t seem to be doing a very good job of heating up every room, and there are too many draughts. He can't even imagine how cold it must be outside while he shivers under his duvet, a quilt, fleece pyjamas and slippers. 

He eventually gets up and keeps himself occupied, his mind still wandering to thoughts of his father, and Rebecca who he knows has been in labour all night long. Maybe the baby has already been born? Is he alright? He can't help but wonder where Niall is, if maybe he will come back to Chatsworth to see him? Louis’ long lost his phone number, but surely Harry or Greg will have it. 

Louis cleans the loo, vacuums the ground floor, tidies the girls’ room, and basically cleans the entire house minus his own bedroom, his carpet covered in dirty clothes and empty water bottles hoarded in the corner next to his bedside table. He should really kill that habit.

Greg calls him around twelve and Louis barely understands him through the excitement and happiness exuding his every word.

"It's a boy, Louis," he states, and Louis thinks he is probably crying, or at least trying his best not to.

"I know Greg, we've known that for four months," Louis laughs. "Is he alright?"

"Yes, he's perfect. We’ve named him Timothy James," Greg says, with so much pride Louis is grinning, totally endeared. "Are you coming to visit today?"

Louis observes the scene outside his window, snow still falling steadily and now settling on the pavement. He really does want to see the baby, though.

"Yes, if the busses are running." 

"Call Harry if your bus doesn't arrive. He's got a car. You can come to the hospital with him."

"How much is it snowing in Manchester?"

"A bit, but you'll be alright. Just call Harry for a lift," Greg insists.

Louis is silent for a beat, and he hears Greg's light chuckle.

"I'll text you his number," Greg declares, and, not waiting for a reply, he adds, "Bye!"

"Laters." Louis will have to accept the suggestion after all.

He showers and has tuna salad for lunch before he finally resolves to text Harry, asking for a ride to the hospital from West Gorton. Harry has seen the message, because the two ticks have turned blue, but he hasn't replied. Louis feels his stomach sink to his knees and chastises himself for listening to Greg. However, a few minutes later Louis' phone starts to ring with an incoming call from Harry. Louis gingerly picks up.

"Erm, hello," Louis says into the receiver, trying not to sound too baffled.

"Hey, Louis," Harry greets, voice almost as cheerful as Greg's. "I’m so excited about little Tim!"

"Me too, mate. Can't wait to see him – I," Louis is hesitant to continue, doesn't know how to vocally ask Harry to take him to the hospital without feeling embarrassed. He decides to use a different strategy. "I hope the buses are working alright despite the weather. The first snowfall usually wreaks havoc on public transport," Louis says conversationally.

"Yes, I know. Seems like you need a lift, and I have my own car," Harry sounds really pleased with this fact, "and I have winter tyres,” he adds, “so I'll take you." 

"Oh, ok, thanks. You could pick me up at the library, maybe?" Louis suggests, mentally calculating how long it will take him, if the bus is on time, to be in West Gorton.

"I can pick you up from home, no problem."

"No, really, I live too far out of your way, it'll only be a waste of time. I'll manage to get to West Gorton by myself," Louis concludes swiftly, before Harry has the chance to offer again to drive to Chatsworth. That would be ridiculous.

"Ok," Harry concedes. "So you'll text me when you're near the park? And I'll wait for you by the bus stop, ok?"

"Ok, see you later." Harry hangs up. 

Louis walks into his sister's bedroom and stands in front of the full length mirror, appraising his image and contemplating whether he should wear something more formal than the jeans and grey hoodie he put on after his shower. He goes into his father's bedroom, now informally converted into Ian's bedroom, and sifts through his father's drawers. He finds a burgundy knit jumper that looks cosy and not too old. Louis takes off the hoodie and, after making sure there aren't any holes in it, puts on the jumper, immediately feeling better when the soft fabric grazes his skin.

He doesn't want to freeze to death while he waits at the bus stop, so he makes sure he has his scarf, beanie and gloves before he sets out, snow still falling unwaveringly. His military parka is maybe not the most appropriate item for the current weather, but he doesn't have anything better so it will have to do.

He's not surprised that the bus arrives half an hour late; he's surprised that it’s arrived at all. There is only one other person on board, and when he alights in front of West Gorton Park the driver is left alone to venture on the icy streets. The journey took almost forty minutes, and Louis had texted Harry twenty minutes prior to his arrival. 

Louis spots Harry in a black Peugeot hatchback, and hurries to get into the passenger seat.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. The bus ride here was madness." Louis is panting after his little jog. He chuckles, trying to break the ice, not feeling one hundred percent comfortable. 

Harry is wearing a down beige winter jacket that looks ten times more comfy than Louis' coat. His knuckles and his nose are red and he smiles weakly at Louis before looking out of the windscreen. Snow is already forming a little mountain on top of the bonnet.

"The weather is terrible, indeed," Harry says somewhat formally.

"Yes, make small talk with me," Louis jokes, watching Harry roll his eyes as he starts the engine. Louis is relieved that any trace of tension is erased, and wonders if this truce is something that could actually work out positively.

Then Harry's radio starts to blast his ominous Nineties Brit-rock music, and Louis wants to start shouting with how much he hates it. A few weeks ago, it would've been something he’d done without blinking an eye, but he realises it would be a dick move after Harry had been so kind to him. So Louis keeps his comments to himself and tries to distract his mind by looking out of the window, as a snow covered Manchester rolls before his eyes. They drive alongside the park, grass turned white and the bare poplar trees towering against a greyish alabaster sky.

Louis is involuntarily bouncing his leg in time with a moody song, one that oddly matches the gloomy yet somewhat magical atmosphere of the cold lonely streets they're driving through.

"What is this?"

"Uh?" Harry looks startled, eyes trained on the semi-deserted road. They flicker to Louis for a nanosecond.

"Who’s the guy singing?"

"Erm, it's The Stone Roses."

"I like this song?" Louis is unprepared for such a revelation, and what should've been a statement comes out in the form of a disbelieving question. "Oh my god, Harry. This song isn't actually that bad." Louis is gaping, incredulous.

"It’s The Stone Roses, it _can't_ be bad. You're not allowed to speak ill of my all time favourite group, or I will demand you immediately get out of my car."

They both laugh, Louis shocked that they're actually bantering instead of biting each other's heads off. 

Harry changes the song, bass and drums grumbling out of the speakers.

"This is Arctic Monkeys!" Louis yelps, triumphant.

"No," Harry shakes his head smirking, "still The Stone Roses. The indie music you like so much derives its style and sound from the Eighties and Nineties Brit pop and grunge that you despise so much." Harry looks far too smug for Louis' liking.

"I only asked for a lift, not a lesson in Music Theory. And that’s just your opinion." Louis tries to sound as unimpressed as he can.

"My opinion is certainly more valuable than yours. And that's not what Music Theory is." Harry is bragging now, and Louis knows that, truce or no truce, he still can't stand him.

"Why? Just because you can play a fucking guitar and I can't," Louis snarls.

"Hey, truce, remember?" Harry looks amused by Louis' outburst, and Louis not only can't stand him, he hates his guts.

Louis huffs and forcibly keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the ride.

They arrive in front of St. Mary’s Hospital and Harry pulls his Peugeot into the nearest parking spot they find. 

Harry goes to pay for the parking ticket while Louis waits in the car, and once Harry’s returned they make their way across the car park and through the glass doors. It's a stark contrast to the relative emptiness of the street outside; the place is swarmed with people. They bypass the front desk, Harry claiming he already knows the way to the Delivery Unit. Louis is lost, but he follows Harry blindly as he struts towards a row of lifts.

"Do you secretly work here?" Louis jokes when they’re making their way up to the third floor. 

Harry's brows scrunch up, a small smile flashing on his lips, not reaching his eyes. 

"I know this place quite well," is all he responds, not meeting Louis' gaze. The arrival chime rings in the spacious lift. Harry steps out, turns right and starts to walk briskly with Louis in tow. 

They see Greg at the end of the corridor. He's pacing back and forth, speaking loudly into his mobile. He greets them with an animated wave, but Louis can see the exhaustion etched in the dark circles under his eyes. He motions for them to enter the room Rebecca is in, and Harry is the first to make it past the threshold. But as soon as he has entered, Harry comes to a halt, Louis almost stumbling into his back. 

Louis wants to protest and yell at Harry, but his irritation is overshadowed by the glacial atmosphere that has descended upon the scene. 

Niall's older brothers, Seamus and Michael, are standing at the end of Rebecca's bed. Meryl, Niall's mother, is holding a small bundle in her hands that must be little Timothy. Her blue eyes, the exact colour and shape of Niall's, are reduced to slits and are darting from Harry to Louis with an icy expression.

"Harry," she welcomes him coldly, and then she adds in a slightly chipper tone, "Hi Louis." 

Rebecca is observing the scene, stone-faced, much like Niall's brothers, while Louis feels like he's somehow intruding. 

"Hi, Mrs. Horan," Harry says, still frozen in the same spot several feet away from the Horans. When he doesn't give any sign of wanting to move, Louis lightly taps his shoulder, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction. Harry shudders as if Louis had just smacked him violently, and, recovering from his stupor, he takes a few reluctant steps towards Rebecca, who is half sitting on top of the covers.

"Mrs. Horan," Louis greets her, trying his best to smile. He nods at Seamus and Michael. He isn't the biggest fan of Niall's family himself, but it looks like Harry has a much bigger problem with them. Louis can't dwell on his thoughts for longer though, because as soon as he sees a tiny head peeking out of the blanket in Mrs. Horan's arms, a squeal escapes his mouth and everyone in the room laughs. Except Harry, who is still standing next to Rebecca, looking at Niall's brothers from the corner of his eye. 

Greg's son is the most beautiful newborn Louis has ever seen. He already has tufts of thin brownish hair on his temples and nape, a peaceful expression and puffy red cheeks. 

"Don't wake him, please. I've just fed him, he should sleep a little bit." Rebecca's voice is tired but she can't conceal her joy, her eyes glinting in the aseptic light of the hospital room. Louis apologises, but he can't stop grinning like a lunatic. 

Harry and Rebecca had started chattering about baby stuff, but Louis wasn't paying attention, still captivated by little Tim. He does, however, register the sudden, stop of their voices. He whips his head around in time to see Mr. Horan enter the room. If Louis had thought the situation was tense before, nothing could have prepared him for the sheer horror that appears on Harry's face at the sight of Niall's father.

Miraculously, Greg walks in right behind Mr. Horan and Harry huffs out a relieved sigh. 

Mr. Horan acts as if Louis and Harry are not there, and comes to stand close to Rebecca. He’s a sturdy man, several inches taller than Harry, and Harry flinches, scuttling out of the way.

"Rebecca dear, I think it's time we should go. Send your regards to your mother, we'll be in touch soon." Mr .Horan's Irish lilt is prominent. He looms over Rebecca before he smacks a light kiss on her cheek, squeezes her hand, lets it go, and paces to Mrs. Horan, still cradling her grandson in her arms. He observes Tim for a moment, before Mrs. Horan hands the bundle to Greg, who kisses both his mother and father before they leave, followed by Greg's brothers. 

"That was... " Harry starts, but then, as if remembering Louis’ presence, he stops in his tracks.

"I'm so sorry Harry, I should've warned you, fuck. I was an idiot, I should've told you when I saw you two. I should've told you to wait outside, I was distracted..." Greg babbles and Harry holds out both his hands, motioning for him to stop apologising. 

Harry's terrified expression is rapidly replaced by a kind smile, "No justification needed. I'm just so happy for the both of you." Harry takes a few quick steps in Louis' direction. Louis is holding Tim in his arms, and this simple act is making him ecstatic, but at the back of his mind there's something still nagging him. 

"Can I hold him, please?" Harry's eyes are positively twinkling, and as soon as Louis meets his amazed expression he feels an impelling urge to look away. He positions Tim in Harry's proffered hands, and Louis wouldn't be exaggerating if he said Tim could fit into one of Harry's large palms. It's a simultaneously endearing and disturbing sight.

Greg gives Louis directives on how to run the pub in his absence. Rebecca will be able to go home the next day, but Greg would rather spend the next few evenings with the newborn.

"My parents have come around, apparently. They say they want to be a part of their grandson's life. They've revoked my disownment, and my mother might start hanging out at The Jockey again." 

His words are directed at Harry more than at Louis, and Louis remains silent, still disorientated. Not wanting to pry, he keeps his mouth shut, listening to Harry's sharp inhales and exhales.

Louis and Harry leave not long after, hugging Greg and Rebecca goodbye. Louis gives a last soft look to Tim, who now has his eyes open. He has the same peculiar amber coloured eyes as his mother. 

Louis and Harry are silent on their way out of St. Mary’s Hospital. Harry gets behind the steering wheel and wordlessly starts the engine, turning on the radio. Louis soon grows fidgety, and he doesn't like the gravity of Harry's pensive face. 

"Tim is so tiny," Louis throws in as casually as possible. "How much did Rebecca say he weighs?" 

"Seven pounds."

"That's average, innit?

"Right. Yeah," Harry's noncommittal response effectively shuts off the half-arsed conversation Louis was trying to engage him in. 

Louis gives up and lets his mind wander, eyes straying to the road outside his window. The snow has stopped falling, and it's almost completely dark now. There's something that doesn't sit right with him though, and he realises they are not in West Gorton anymore.

"Harry you should've taken me to the bus stop!" Louis exclaims.

"I'm taking you home."

Harry's tone doesn't leave space for complaint, but Louis is not going to let it drop so easily.

"You don't have to."

"I want to." 

Louis is miffed. "Why?" he's raising his voice. 

"So you can be at work on time," Harry glances at him briefly, "without catching a cold."

"Why do you care," Louis mutters, tearing his gaze away. Harry either doesn't hear him or chooses to ignore him, returning to his silent contemplation of the road ahead. Louis can't help it when his gaze drifts again to Harry's direction, and he observes his tense demeanour. Harry's hands are gripping the steering wheel with force, and when he switches gear his movements are brusque. 

As they make their way to Chatsworth, Louis tries really hard to contain his curiosity. However, his resolution falters when, a mile away from home, Harry still hasn't spoken a single word to him, except to ask him which turns to take. 

"Harry, I know it's none of my business –" Louis pauses, seeing Harry wince. "Ok. I won't say anything."

"No. Please, don't. It's..." he trails off, making a vague hand gesture. "It's complicated," he adds, as if that is all he can come up with in that moment. 

*

Louis' house is silent when he makes it past the front door, his feet numb with cold and the image of Harry's distressed features still burning in his eyes. He catches a glimpse of brown hair disappearing into the living room. Ian's head peaks out from the doorway.

"Dad’s asleep upstairs," he whispers. 

Ian's face is paler than usual, his cheeks and nose covered in tiny light brown freckles. He's getting taller by the day, his head already past Louis' shoulders. Louis remembers tucking in a ten year old Ian, on a night like this, except Ian would be trembling and weeping silently because he missed his mum. Louis would console him, his own chest tightening, tears stinging at the back of his eyes. But he had to keep it together, push back the tears, and be strong for his little brother.

"How was he? Did he say anything?" 

Ian shakes his head.

"Was school ok?" 

Louis puts the kettle on. No point in even taking off his jacket.

"Tomorrow’s a snow day. I'm gonna have a lie-in, don't wake me up."

"Ok." 

They chatter about school and little Tim for a while. Louis sips his tea, hugs the hot mug to his chest, using it to warm his hands. Ruby appears from the stairs wearing a blanket as a cape.

"Hi," Louis stands up and she grips him in a hug, momentarily wrapping him up as well. "We're giving shelter to Orestes." 

"That's awesome." Louis smiles down at Ruby's twinkling hazel eyes. "I'm in a hurry. Was your day ok? You staying home, too, tomorrow?" Louis' hand is already on the handle of the front door, and from the corner of his eye he sees the furry ginger cat perched on top of the sofa armrest.

"Yes." Ruby dumps the blanket on a chair and opens the refrigerator. "I'm making dumplings for tea, d'you want us to leave you some?"

"Nah, I'll eat something while I'm at work. Bye!"

Louis sets out, and it's even colder than before. He lifts the hood of his parka against the swirling wind, stomping in the direction of The Jockey.

It's a slow, extremely boring night. He's working with Stan, who usually does the afternoon shift. Louis thinks Stan is alright, but he has the unbearable habit of telling the same jokes over and over again. Considering he also has the oddest opinions on football Louis has ever heard, Louis’ relieved when, at ten thirty, Stan leaves him to tend to the last few punters on his own. 

After forty minutes the pub is empty. Louis is shuffling from the backroom through the back door, dragging a huge pile of rubbish outside, when he hears the sound of a door slamming shut. Panic strikes him when he remembers that he hasn't locked the door. He hasn't emptied the cash register into the safe box either. He's fucked.

Louis feels all his senses go into overdrive, his body heavy like lead as he strains his ears. He's only met with silence. Louis forces himself to take a couple of silent steps, and he jumps when he hears a hesitant 'Hello?'. At least, he thinks, maybe it's not a thief or a serial killer.

Louis warily makes his way back to the front and feels all of his blood flow down to his feet when he sees Harry standing in the middle of the pub, with his hands digging into the pockets of his coat, eyes wide. He's startled too when he sees Louis, one hand flying up to clutch his chest.

"You scared me." Harry yelps.

" _I_ scared you?!" Louis yells, " _You_ almost gave me a bloody heart attack!" 

They glare at each other, Louis' heart still rabbiting. 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have showed up here at this hour," Harry apologises. He looks miserable. 

"Nevermind. What's up mate? You look like shit." Despite his indelicacy, and the fact Louis would never admit it, he's starting to worry.

"You know when you feel like you need to get out," Harry's voice is unsteady. He casts his gaze down briefly, embarrassed. "And you feel like venting to someone?" he finishes, a half smile spreading across his face, not touching his tired, puffy eyes. 

Louis doesn't answer. He turns his back to Harry, entering the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Sit down. Do you want some tea?" Louis returns, not looking at Harry, sensing it would only make him feel more uncomfortable. Harry feebly hums in affirmation. Louis turns around to see him flopping down on a chair. 

"I don't know why I came here." Harry is staring at his hands, neatly folded on top of the wooden table. He has shucked off his jacket and put it on the seat next to him. "I just need to tell this to someone, I think."

Louis sets two steaming cups down on the table and sits down in front of Harry.

"It's ok. I'll listen," Louis reassures him, careful, still afraid he might scare Harry off. This situation in itself would've been unthinkable a mere two weeks before. 

"Ok, well." Harry cradles the cup in his hands, inhales deeply, and starts again. "I got back here the day before Christmas. And, what happened is, basically." Harry stops in his tracks, unable to go on. "I was kidnapped by the Horans," he lets out in one breath. 

Louis gasps, almost choking on his tea.

"I think it was technically a kidnap?" Harry muses, unhindered by Louis' near death. "Michael and Seamus blindsided me, dragged me into a van, took me into a room and kept me locked there for twenty-four hours. I remember I had heard stories when I was in school. About how dangerous these people were, about their cruel methods. How they had physically eliminated any competition, how they used to demand money for protection. When I became friends with Niall, I’d wanted to ask him if those stories were true. But he hardly ever spoke about his family, so I never asked him anything. Turns out, those stories held some truth after all."

"They tortured you?" Louis hisses, horrified.

Harry shakes his head. "No, thank God. But I was scared shitless nonetheless. It wasn't exactly pleasant either. They kept interrogating me. Well, Niall's father did. Kept asking me where Niall was. Apparently, they hadn't heard from him in more than a year. Fucking unbelievable."

Harry pauses, gulping down the rest of his tea. He is picking at a spot on his thumb with his index, almost drawing blood.

"And what did you tell them?" Louis urges him on.

"What could I have told them? I haven't seen Niall in two months, nor heard from him. I don't have the faintest idea where he is. His phone's been dead since the day he left London."

"He left? Where to?"

"I have no idea. He didn't tell me where he was going."

"Why?" 

Harry deflates, slumping down in his chair. He fiddles with a tissue he’d extracted from his pocket, gaze downcast.

"It was –" Harry stops and fixes a curl that was poking his left eye. He seems to be gathering up all his courage, and then he goes on, "It was pretty hard for us towards the end. Things within the band were tense, had been for a while. The other two members were older than us, way into their thirties. They were growing impatient." 

Harry stops talking again, pressing his lips together. He's grimacing, looking unsure about whether he should continue or not. Perhaps debating with himself how much he is willing to reveal. 

"I was with someone. Someone who worked in the music business. And, for me at least, it was a real thing. So I thought," Harry snorts, his face wry. "I thought it was a done deal. I was sure we were going to get signed. Record a proper album. But it turns out," Harry still hesitates. "It turns out he was married. Fuck. I really have no idea why I'm telling you this. I'm sorry. I'm dumping all of this on you. You're the only person I've told this stuff to. I've no idea why I'm doing this."

Louis' mind is racing, stray pieces of an intricate puzzle finally starting to form a clear picture. What Harry had revealed during the game at his birthday party, the fact he wasn't into Sophie. It all makes more sense now. 

"That's ok, Harry. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," Louis hurries to say. His hand twitches, his natural instinct telling him to touch Harry's arm in a soothing movement. But Louis makes sure to keep the impulse at bay.

"No, no. I don't care about that." Harry sounds so frank it's almost painful to Louis' ears. "I was planning on coming out to you and the others." Harry's eyelids droop, recollection hooding his gaze. "Sorry, I'm going off on a tangent. Anyway. Me, Niall, and the rest of the band were convinced we were going to get an offer by the end of the year. Matt – that was his name – he assured me it was gonna happen. In hindsight, it might've never been his intention. Maybe he said that just to keep me tied to him, I don't know." Harry lets out a resentful chuckle.

"I soon found out he was lying. He had a wife and a kid, and he had kept it hidden from me. He begged me not to leave him, and I was so stupid. He still claimed we would be signed, that other music execs had liked our demos. Now I doubt he even asked anyone else listen to them, perhaps he didn't even listen to them himself. He left me, shortly after. Dumped me and the band altogether, disappeared into thin air."

"It was awful. The band took it badly, Niall worse than the rest of us, even worse than me. I was heartbroken, literally sulking. I was in love with him. Or, at least, I was convinced I was. And then Niall up and left. He didn't say goodbye, he didn't say where he was going. He only sent me a text, telling me he needed to leave. That he needed some time on his own to clear his head." 

Louis is stunned into silence, Harry's eyes dark and unfocused, but there's a tumultous movement behind them, like saturated sea waves, premises of a shipwreck. He’s staring into the void, and Louis is paralysed, waiting for Harry's next words.

"All of this doesn't matter now," Harry whispers, voice so low Louis barely hears him. "Nothing matters anymore. Niall is gone, and I have no fucking idea where he is." Harry circles his fingers against his temples, looking on the verge of a break down. It looks like he’s finished telling his story though, and now Louis knows he should step in. But Louis has no idea what to say.

"Bloody hell," is all he can muster. 

Harry seems drained, every edge of his features sharper than when Louis had seen him that afternoon. 

"Well, there you go. I've just spilled my guts to you, and I was definitely far too sober for that. I'm just fucking tired." Harry rubs his red eyes, looking exhausted. "With all the information I just gave you, you could definitely blackmail me now."

"Don't be ridiculous," Louis scoffs, appreciating Harry's attempt at lightening the mood. "I'm not going to do any blackmailing. I'm a bit worried, to be honest." As soon as the words are out, Louis chides himself. He shouldn't have made such an admission, but it's out in the open now, so he might as well roll with it. "Are the Horans still bothering you? Do you reckon they'll threaten you, or abduct you again? Did they believe you when you said you don't know where Niall is?"

"No, I don't think they believed me. But I don't know what to do. I've managed to stay out of their way as much as I could. And I really hope they won't show up at the Jockey, cos – "

"Cos you don't wanna stop hanging out here," Louis finishes.

"No, obviously. I won't stand for this bullshit. I can hang out wherever I want to," Harry says firmly.

"You're right, you don't have to let them intimidate you. Plus, there's Greg here. I'm sure he’d defend you. And me and the lads won't let anything happen to you." This last sentence hadn’t sounded quite so cheesy in Louis' head, but it definitely did when he said it out loud.

Harry laughs, and this time it's genuine and his eyes light up for a second. "I don't need protection."

"I'm just being civil," Louis shrugs. "And if something happens you could go to Liam's father."

"I don't like him. And the police are corrupt, anyway, so that'd be useless. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, yeah, you're right." Louis inhales deeply and stands up on shaky legs. "I'm dead on my feet."

Harry also stands up, stretching his back.

"I'm so sorry I kept you here." He fishes his phone from the pocket of his coat. "Fuck, it's late."

"Yeah. I have work tomorrow morning."

Louis clears away their mugs, locks every door and puts the money in the safe box. 

"What are you still doing here?" Louis asks Harry, who's standing near the pub exit.

Harry looks taken aback. "Nothing. I'll leave when you've got everything set here."

Louis turns off all the lights, exits and locks the main door. Harry is still there, looking uncertain.

"You can go now." Louis mutters, his breath turning into fog. He raises the hood of his jacket over his head.

The streets are empty and pitch black, apart from the few streetlamps scattered along the main road, casting a yellowish glow around them. The pavements, the few cars parked there, and everything else is covered in a thin layer of frosted snow. 

"Yes." Harry takes a couple steps towards his Peugeot, parked in front of The Jockey. "Thank you." 

"Goodnight," Louis replies, as Harry gets in the car and drives away. 

When Harry's car has disappeared around the corner, Louis sets off towards home, careful not to slip on hidden icy patches.

*

Louis pushes the door open slowly. The room is shrouded in semi-darkness, thin strips of sunlight seeping through a closed shutter blind. Louis feels scared but he doesn't know why. He doesn't really know where he is. He sees a dark figure sitting on a wooden chair. Louis has never been more frightened in his life, but his body keeps approaching the person until he recognises him, long brown hair framed by square shoulders. 

At last, Louis is able to circle around the chair, coming to stand in front of Harry. It looks like he’s sleeping, chest gently rising and falling with each breath. He appears oddly at peace, but Louis knows he’s in danger. Harry's hands and feet are tied to the chair. Louis drops to his knees and begins to loosen the ropes, but every time he unties a knot another one appears and Louis starts to panic. He tries to untie Harry's hands but it's useless; he can't seem to unfasten the knots fast enough.

Harry stirs, and Louis hears the dull thud of footsteps drawing closer. Louis' hands are shaking and he wants to scream, shout for help, but his voice has gone and he’s rendered mute, his mouth opening but his scream silenced.

Louis wakes up unable to move his body. He's paralysed. It hasn't happened to him in a while but each time is a terrifying experience. He can't move a muscle; he can't open his mouth. He starts to hyperventilate through his nose, trying to make the horrible sensation go away as fast as possible. When he has control over his body again, he inhales deeply a few times to calm himself. Under the duvet it is suffocatingly hot and there is a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. 

He throws off the covers and tries to recall his dream. It's been a few weeks since Harry told him about what had happened with the Horans when he came back to West Gorton, and he and Louis haven’t spoken of it since. Nor has Louis thought about it, mostly. He knows Harry has told some of it to Zayn and Liam, and he was there when Harry came out to them.

While Harry was candidly talking about his ex-boyfriend, Liam must've been so caught up in the story that he chimed in, revealing his bisexuality, disregarding Zayn's presence. Louis had been shocked, Harry beaming and providing the appropriate congratulations, whilst Zayn's expression had become so wound up that Louis couldn't really tell what he was thinking. Zayn had always been totally cool with Louis' sexuality, and he hadn't even blinked when Harry had come out, merely acting a little surprised. But Liam's confession had instantly made Zayn assume a stiff expression, and he had left a bit later saying he had to go and see Amy. Alongside Liam’s revelation was the information that he and Sophie are now dating, although, in Louis' opinion, he doesn't look as happy as he should do. Louis, not one to judge others' relationships, let it drop without saying a word to Liam. 

Tim is almost one month old now, and everyone in Chatsworth is already in love with him. Almost everyday Rebecca will show up with the baby for a few minutes and greet everyone downstairs at The Jockey, even if no one's allowed to touch him yet. And Louis had seen her pushing his pram down the street the first time she took him outside, all bundled up. Tim had slept the entire time. Niall's mum has shown up at The Jockey once or twice, but, much to Harry's relief, there's still no sign of Niall's brothers or Mr. Horan. 

Harry now spends a lot of time in West Gorton's library. Louis sees him browsing the Victorian literature section, or sometimes only sitting down scribbling on a ragged black leather journal, his eyes dark and eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. Harry's hair is often pulled into a loose bun, which frankly looks ridiculous. Otherwise, when his hair is hanging down freely, it always gets in his eyes and Harry spends half of the time adjusting it behind his ears. Louis doesn't mean to observe him as much as he finds himself doing. He tells himself that you ought to know your enemy, but it's starting to sound like a rather trite excuse.

Harry closes his journal every time Louis comes close to him. Louis sometimes asks Harry to show him what the hell he's always writing, but Harry doesn't seem too keen to show anyone what's inside it, and Louis gets that it's probably stuff he wants to keep private. Maybe he writes songs or poems? Maybe he sketches, Louis has no idea. 

Harry often joins Louis during his cigarette break, even though Harry doesn't smoke during the day. Louis finds this odd, but he is also conscious that he himself smokes a bit too much. It is not long before Louis finds himself only drinking tea during said break, having refrained from chain-smoking two cigarettes in ten minutes, as he would have done before. What the hell is happening to him? Clearly, fraternising with the enemy is making him weaker. 

In the past few days though, Harry hasn't been in the library, or at The Jockey, or anywhere else for that matter. Louis wonders what he is up to. He isn't worried. Not at all. After what he now knows about the Horans? Not in the slightest. 

*

It's almost mid-March and the last snowfall has left the streets scattered with greying ice blocks perched on the sides of the road. The days are still chilly but the sun doesn't set so early anymore, and it's only a matter of weeks before spring officially arrives.

Louis has lunch with Prue and Julian that day. He's happy that his co-workers are so laid back and the three of them really get on well. Prue is hilarious and Julian appears reserved at first, but once you've talked to him a couple times you find out he's a really pleasant guy.

They're eating at the cafe across from West Gorton Park, where Louis had lunch with Liam on his first day.

“What happened to your friend?” Prue asks, voice muffled, wolfing down her cheeseburger as if she hadn't eaten in a week. 

“I have no idea.” Louis' puzzled by the question, but he keeps on munching on his chips.

“Too bad,” she replies. After a beat, she adds, “He's fit”

Louis laughs, “Prue, he's gay.”

She pouts, “Why is every cute guy I see gay?”

“That's not true, Julian's straight.” Louis winks and nudges Prue, but he doesn't get any reaction.

“He's taken,” Prue sighs, pretending to be very sad about it.

“Sorry, Prue,” Julian smirks.

“It's only banter, your wife doesn't have to be jealous,” she hurries to say, nonetheless winking to Julian. Then they both burst out laughing again.

“Wait, does it mean you think I'm cute?” Louis asks, smug smile on his face.

Prue shoves him. 

“So, you two are dating?” she asks, excited, fluttering her eyelashes at Louis.

“No! Are you insane?!” Louis almost splutters his coke. “Just because we're both gay doesn't mean we have to date. And we're not even friends, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“What are you on about?” Prue is staring at Louis, confused.

“We're not, like, friends. More like mates, _lads_.” 

“He brings you tea, like, everyday.” 

“It's happened once or twice, shut up Prue.” It has totally happened more than twice, but Louis has no intention to dwell on that thought

“Whatever you say,” Prue agrees, completely disbelieving.

*

The next day when Louis goes to work he spots Harry reading in the English Literature section. Louis totally doesn't feel relieved when he sees his rumpled curls and faded band t-shirt.

During Louis' break, Harry materialises next to him on the black wooden bench outside the library entrance. He extracts a thermos from his small satchel, opens it and pours a mug of something that isn't tea. Or coffee.

“What on earth is that?” Louis wrinkles his nose at the odd smell.

“It's barley. Have you ever had it?” Harry puts the cup in front of Louis' face. 

“Dear God, no,” Louis winces, pushing away the offending liquid.

“Do you want to try some? It doesn't taste so bad.” Harry takes a sip and Louis really doesn't know how he can stomach the stuff.

“No, I think I'll pass. It smells awful.”

“Not true,” Harry whines, childish, burying his nose into the cup and inhaling. “It's a robust smell. I like it.”

Louis wants to ask him where he's been in the last four days. “May I ask you why you drink that crap?” is what he says instead. 

“Because it doesn't contain any caffeine and I feel a bit nervous lately.”

Louis takes a few moments to properly drink in Harry's appearance. His hair is dishevelled and less curly than usual. He looks tired, eyes puffy. But he looks different from when he and Louis had shared that late night chat at The Jockey. He looks despondent, deflated, head downcast, shoulders slumped and oddly small inside his beige jacket. Louis is blindsided by the urge to ask him what's wrong, but he knows he has no right to and that would be a bit out of character. Well, if it were Liam or Zayn looking like that, Louis would already have forced them to tell him everything. Because they're his best friends, but Harry isn't really a friend. Right? Louis must keep his distance. 

Louis had to spend the last three hours of work cataloguing books on the computer, and he feels like his eyeballs have doubled in size. He is the last one to leave the library that evening, so he has to check every room and switch off every light. He checks the last study room on the ground floor, which is the smallest, and the most requested by uni students who sometimes literally have fights over it. That's where he finds a sleeping Harry, softly snoring with his head resting on the table. He may be drooling a bit. The sight reminds him of the nightmare he had a few nights before, and an unpleasant feeling unfurls in Louis’ gut.

Louis minces carefully to Harry's side. 

“Harry,” Louis' voice comes out too low, Harry not even stirring. He's still snoring, looking more peaceful than ever, stray strands of hair cascading down his face. 

Louis shakes Harry's shoulder, lightly. But it's still useless. It's clear Harry is a heavy sleeper. Louis shakes him with more force.

“Harry!” This time it's almost a yell. Louis doesn't believe in half measures. 

Harry startles awake and wipes at his mouth. He looks disoriented. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he mumbles, and flies to his feet, stumbling. “I feel woozy.” Then his eyes widen, the image of sheer panic. “What time is it?

“Closing time.”

“Oh my God. Am I the last person here?”

“Yes.” Louis is confused. What the hell is going on?

“Oh my God.” Harry sits down on his chair again, hyperventilating. “Fuck.”

“Can you explain please?”

“Yeah, sorry. This was my biggest fear when I was a kid.”

“What?”

“Being locked up in an empty public place. Like a shopping centre, or a museum. I always make sure to be with someone or leave a decent amount of time before closing time.” Harry is still flustered, paler than ever.

“You look like shit, mate,” Louis points out. He doesn't want to sound rude, but it's the plain truth. Harry looks like a ghost.

“Always a flatterer, you.” Harry seems to regain a bit of colour, but his words lack any bite.

“Well, you don't need to worry, because I'm right here. I'm the only person who could lock you up in here. So you're fine,” Louis reassures him.

Harry doesn't look convinced. “But I was asleep. And this room is so far away from the front desk, you might've forgotten to check here.” He ponders for a bit then adds, “I might've woken up after you’d left, and been locked in here by myself.” 

Louis chuckles, he can't help it.

“It's not funny! It's a phobia. Stop taking the piss,” Harry protests, disgruntled.

He starts gathering his things and throwing them into his bag.

“Hey, erm.” Even if Louis can't ask Harry why he’s so whacked, he can still try to cheer him up, “Do you want to see my favourite place inside this building?” 

Harry lights up, ever so slightly, and considers the offer. “Ok!”

They take a lift to the top floor, and neither of them speaks. But the silence isn't heavy; rather, Louis likes it. He leads Harry down a long, dark corridor and fishes for the correct key in the set, opening the door to the archive. The double-glazed windows don't have blinds, so light is pouring freely through the clear glass. It's a few minutes past five, the sun already setting and its rays directly illuminating the rows of folding shelves. 

“This is the archive?” Harry's eyes survey the large room, unbelieving.

“Yes,” Louis says with pride, “I thought it would be a dark, humid, sad, dejected room no one wants to be in. But this place is amazing.”

Harry starts to wander through the tall shelves, fingertips grazing the spines of the books neatly tucked in every ledge. He disappears for a brief moment in the shadows, and resurfaces on the opposite side of the room. 

“How many books are in here?” The tiniest smile appears on his face, and Louis mentally high fives himself because he was the one to put it there. Ok, _what_ is wrong with him? 

“Around five thousand,” Louis replies. “I had to catalogue five hundred last week, and it took me ages.”

Harry chuckles and observes the highest shelves, his chin lifted and his expression dreamy. 

“I like your job. Can I climb that?” He's pointing to the dangerously tall iron ladder.

“Absolutely not. Even though it should be safe, you're so clumsy. If you fall and whack your head, how will I explain why you were here?”

“Oh, so you won't be shattered by my death,” Harry pouts, “only worried about your boss.” 

“Stop being silly.” 

Louis leads Harry into the middle of the seemingly identical rows of shelves, and points to a spot above their heads. 

“That’s my favourite section. Kyd, Marlowe, Ben Jonson. Their plays are sick.”

“Who even are they?”

“Gifted Elizabethan playwrights, whose names sunk into oblivion once someone decided Shakespare was the only author from that period worth reading or teaching.” Louis huffs, fake indignant, “He's so overrated.” 

Harry's hearty and booming laughter fills the air, echoing off the walls. “Why are you so bitter? Poor William,” he says. “I didn't know you were so into Elizabethan Theatre.”

“I love theatre. I wanted to become a playwright.”

“What do you mean wanted? You've changed your mind?”

“I haven't been to University, have I?” Louis replies.

“That doesn't mean you can't write a play.”

“Harry, don't be ridiculous. No one would want to read anything I write.” Louis shrugs.

Harry is staring him down, fierce, as though he's about to lecture him.

“You should try to pursue your dream, even if things didn't go as planned in the past.” Harry is pinning Louis down with a serious expression. He has his back to the windows, features half concealed by darkness. “And didn’t you start uni straight after sixth form? What happened?” 

Louis only wants to tell him to fuck off already. But he tries to stay calm. “I had to drop out.” 

“Why?”

“I had to drop out,” Louis repeats, making it clear that the topic is closed.

Louis walks back to the archive door.

“C'mon, let's go back down. I don't want anyone to find out I've taken someone here, and I should've left twenty minutes ago.” 

They are silent in the lift, again. But this time the air between them is tense, and Harry hasn't said a word since Louis shut down his question earlier. Louis doesn't like it.

Once Louis has closed the library's front door, Harry sends him a feeble 'goodbye'.

“Hey, wait!” The words escape Louis' mouth before he has processed them.

Harry backtracks and looks at Louis expectantly.

“Look, it's nothing personal. I just don't like to talk about –” he's not sure how to word this properly. “About some things that have happened in the past.” That's what he settles on, and the whole sentence is entirely euphemistic. He absolutely doesn't want to think about it. 

“It's ok, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried.” 

“Yeah, you're right. But I could've been less of a dick.”

“No, I mean it. I get that you don't want to talk about certain things. Everyone has their secrets Louis, even though not everyone is as good at keeping them. I've got a big mouth sometimes.” 

“'Both figuratively and literally speaking then,” Louis states, and just like that the tension between them has dissipated. Louis smirks and walks past Harry, nonchalantly, stepping in the direction of his bus stop. He glances back for a brief second.

Harry's big mouth is grinning.

*

On a Saturday night, when Louis' done at The Jockey, Louis and Liam meet up with Harry and Zayn at their usual spot near the canal. Winter’s cold is starting to dwindle, slowly but steadily. Either way, Louis is still shivering against the mild but blustery wind. The street is empty, and the disused train station would be eerie and spectral to a foreign eye, but it has been Louis and Zayn's hiding place since they were thirteen, so they're used to the uncanny silence that reigns there.

The area is clad in semi-darkness, but Louis can see two silhouettes sitting on the low brick wall near the tracks. When Louis and Liam get closer, they can hear hushed voices. Zayn is rolling a spliff and he is the first one to greet them, not bothering to hide his surprised expression when he sees Liam's there too.

“Well, well, well. Look who's graced us with his presence. Sure your girlfriend approves?” Zayn asks Liam, and Louis could start tearing his hair out in frustration. 

“Sod off,” Liam snaps back. “I'm only here because I had my written exams this morning, and I needed to take a breather.” 

“How do you think they went?” Harry chimes in, sounding genuinely interested.

“I don't really know. I hope I did well.” Liam squirms, but he looks hopeful. 

Louis sits down next to Zayn, Liam still standing in front of them. 

“And when's the physical ability test?” Louis enquires.

“Next Thursday.” Liam cards his fingers through his short brown hair, movements jittery. “I'm so nervous, those tests are ruthless.” 

Zayn lights up. He inhales, exhales, and white smoke pours from his mouth like a waterfall. 

“Well, if I don’t make it,” Liam goes on, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of weed, “I'll just keep my traffic warden job. And I'll try again as soon as I can. I won't be deterred, I will get in sooner or later.”

“You're right. You can't give up if you’re sure that's what you really wanna do.” Harry's words ring in Louis' head, a rephrasing of what Harry had said to him a few days before. Louis is glad Harry can't see his face in that moment.

Zayn scoffs, eyeing Liam up and down. “Didn't know you worked as a traffic warden. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact your dad's a policeman.”

“Stop it,” Louis mutters, making grabby hands at the blunt in Zayn's hands. Zayn ignores him, still too focused on glaring at Liam.

“Don't know what you're talking about. I got that job because I deserved it.” 

Zayn takes a last drag and hands the spliff to Harry, who starts to smoke sloppily.

“Alright. Enough, kids,” Louis declares.

“You should stop arguing and find some common ground,” Harry tries. “Like, what do you like to do in your spare time, Zayn?”

“Jesus, if weed has the power to turn you into some kind of counselor I forbid you to ever smoke again.” Zayn doesn't look amused but, surprising everyone, he indulges Harry's question, “Well, I draw.”

Harry lights up, looking like an excited puppy.

“What do you draw?!” he exclaims, and Louis is so annoyed by his genuine enthusiasm. Is this kid never bored?

“I like superheroes. Marvel mostly. I make drawings and sell stuff on the internet, like fan art.” Zayn always tries to downgrade what he does, play it cool, act like it's not a big deal. But Louis has seen his sketches and some of the finished drawings and Zayn is really fucking good. He's reserved, so he doesn't like to show off his talent, at least not to the people they hang out with, but Louis knows he has a good share of 'followers' online who appreciate his art.

Liam looks impressed. “I love superheroes.” 

“Yeah, but I'm not good at it,” Zayn insists.

“Stop with the self-deprecation, Zayn,” Louis interrupts. “He's really good. You should show him some of your finished works. Plus, Zayn is the one who decorated that.” Louis points to an abandoned locomotive, which looks sad, dejected and half rotten, most of it covered in musk and weeds.

“Well, many years ago.” Zayn admits, “It used to look awesome.”

“You mean you vandalised it,” Liam rectifies.

“See?” Zayn whines, looking at Louis. “He's impossible.”

“You're both impossible.” Louis feels so, so done with his two best friends.

“I still don't understand why you want us to become besties. You two couldn't stand each other until last week.” Liam points out, gesturing between Louis and Harry.

Louis' eyebrows shot up. “Who says I can stand him?”

“Louiiis,” Harry complains. “We're the bestest friends now.”

“I will never admit to such an untruthful thing,” Louis declares. Harry finally hands him the spliff, but only the butt is left. “Well, thank you very much.” 

Harry's response is a string of giggles, totally uncalled for, maybe entirely weed induced. 

“I reckon we should do something reckless tonight,” Harry starts, apropos of nothing.

“Like what?” Zayn asks, taking a swig from a half empty bottle of beer.

“Like, erm,” Harry's eyes shoot up, as though he's looking for the right answer in the pitch-black starless sky. “Like going to see the sunrise somewhere.”

“The sunrise?” Louis squeaks, “It's 2 am, have you any idea how long it'll be before dawn?” Harry does talk shit on a daily basis, but he has managed to outdo himself tonight. 

“But I want to see the sunrise. It's Sunday tomorrow, you don't have work.”

“I do,” Zayn counters.

“I gotta work out and practice for the test,” Liam says, “and I definitely need to get a decent amount of sleep.” 

Harry looks at Louis grinning from ear to ear. 

“Don't even look at me. I need my beauty sleep.”

“You're always complaining that you can't sleep.” Harry looks like a child on the verge of a temper tantrum.

“No, I mean it. I need sleep, I feel knackered. This week has been really hard.”

Louis isn't lying; the past six days were busy and tiring. He’d been on closing duty every night at The Jockey, and Miss Evans had deemed him fit to transfer some big, heavy boxes from the basement to the Children's Literature section. His back and legs muscles have yet to recover.

They light up another spliff, Louis nagging Zayn that he has to be the next in line. Zayn smirks, taking a deep drag, and then tilts his head towards Louis, raising his eyebrows. Louis feels a hand sneak behind his neck, guiding his head towards Zayn's. It's not the first time they’ve shotgunned, but usually Zayn's lips only ghost on Louis' and it's very brief. This time, though, Zayn's lips are pressing into Louis' while he inhales, and the hand on his nape makes it impossible for him to pull back before Zayn has let him go. 

Liam clears his throat. “Should we leave you alone?” It doesn't sound like he's joking.

Louis inhales the thick smoke, trying his best not to have a coughing fit. Harry is gaping at them, eyes wide and dark. Louis looks away, inexplicably embarrassed. 

“I thought you were straight.” Harry sounds like Zayn has betrayed him. 

“Does that matter? I can still kiss my best mate,” Zayn replies matter-of-factly, unfazed. 

“Whatever,” Harry mutters.

“What would Amy say?” Liam asks, tone unusually teasing.

“I don't care, she's not my girlfriend,” Zayn says with force, shrugging. 

*

Liam is the first one to leave, saying he has to be up early. Zayn finishes two bottles of beer before calling it a night. He's gone before Louis or Harry can say anything, and they are left there staring into the dark, empty street.

“It's almost 4.30,” Harry says casually. “Are you sleepy?

“No,” Louis answers, before he can think better of it. Harry is standing in front of him, energized, unable to stay still for more than a second, like something's gotten into him. Louis, on his part, is curled up in a sitting position, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“I have an amazing offer that you can't refuse,” Harry starts.

“What are you on about, weed makes you even weirder than usual.”

“Heyyy. And I'm not high. I just feel like I want to do something that I don't get to do everyday, and I don't see any reason why we shouldn't make the most of it while we can. We won't be able to do something like that when we're old and wrinkled.”

“What would you like to do? Let's hear it.”

“Ok, listen to me before you say no.” Harry's eyes trail behind Louis' back, his eyes sparkling as if inside his head he is already picturing the scenario. “We can go to see the sunrise on the beach.”

“On the beach?” Louis' can't believe his ears.

“Crosby Beach. Have you ever been there?”

“Nope, but I've heard the name before.”

“I used to go there with my family when I was little. C'mon. Let's go. You can sleep while I drive.”

Louis might actually consider this. “How long will it take?

“Less than an hour. So that's a yes?” Harry lights up like a Christmas tree.

Louis is torn. Should he say no? Because this sounds like a really stupid idea. On the one hand, Harry looks so ecstatic at the prospect, that Louis doesn't want to see that smile fade and Harry's dimple disappear because of his refusal. Plus, Louis hasn't done something like this in God knows how long and he's not working the next day. He doesn't have any impending obligation. Ian, Claire and Ruby were home that night, and his dad was missing as usual. He's past worrying about him, since he has no idea where he is most of the time. 

But on the other hand, this whole situation seems so surreal. Louis has found himself, once again, alone with Harry, at the oddest hour of night. Just the two of them. Whereas up until a few weeks ago it would've been unthinkable that they would hang out by themselves, that they would be so comfortable in each other's company. The truth is, Louis has now begun to think of Harry as a friend. Louis hadn’t thought it would be possible for him to be friends with Harry, not after how they had treated each other throughout school, or after their mutual dislike had been rekindled as soon as Harry had returned to Chatsworth. Yet, it looked like that truce of theirs was really working.

“Ok,” Louis eventually agrees. He decides to set some rules though. “But you have to agree to my conditions. No music that I don't like in the car. And if I fall asleep, you don't disturb me until we arrive. And I want to be home at a decent hour.” He lists off, watching as Harry's smile intensifies despite Louis' restrictions. 

Harry squeals in delight, and immediately takes off, Louis scuttling behind him. Physically he feels bone-tired, but his mind is wide awake. As soon as they get in the car though, Louis collapses into the passenger seat. Harry lowers the volume of the radio to an almost inaudible hum that in no time lulls Louis to sleep. 

It's a light, dreamless slumber, and from time to time he hears a low, sweet voice rumbling next to him. Louis is awoken by a solid hand shaking him, bringing him back to consciousness. The engine is off, and his limbs are achey from staying in the same position for too long. He gingerly raises his head and opens his eyes to slits. It's still pretty dark. The air inside the car is toasty, cosy. 

“We're here,” Harry announces.

“Don’t wanna get out. It's cold outside. Can't we watch from the car?”

“This isn't the right time to throw a strop. C'mon. We'll have a better view down the pier.”

Harry opens his door and a surge of chilly air rushes inside, as a shiver runs down Louis' spine. He tries to remember why he agreed to come here in the first place, but Harry is already getting out, and Louis has no other choice. He braces himself, securing the hood of his parka on his head, and reluctantly follows Harry outside.

The world around them is black and white. It's that moment of morning where it's still dark but not as dark as it is at night. To Louis' left there's the beach, and beyond the large strip of sand, sea expands in all its wrinkled grey vastness. It's calm, but not completely flat. The only sound is the weak shatter of the waves upon the shore. 

“Harry, are those people?”

There seem to be several men standing on the beach, facing the sea. Harry is observing the scene before him, fascinated.

“Those are statues, Louis.”

Louis is astounded. He hadn't been expecting anything like that. It's not dawn yet, although the sky is getting lighter by the minute and, as his eyes get used to the scarce light, he can see that what he thought were strangely tall people are indeed dozens of identical statues. They seem to be erected at an even distance from one another, some half submerged by the tide, only their busts or heads peeking out.

They descend some stairs and amble down the long pier. They reach a row of iron benches neatly aligned along the narrow dock and sit down upon the nearest one. The dark sky is starting to clear up, strips of thin fog hovering over the quiescent sea. But there's something wrong.

“Harry,” Louis doesn't know why he’s whispering, but the desolation of the scene and the fact that it's not even six in the morning makes him feel like he's in a place where silence is precious, and he doesn't want his voice to break the spell. “Harry, you're aware that we're facing west, right?” 

Harry hums, eyes still trained ahead of him.

“We're not going to see the sun appear on the sea’s horizon. What’s the point of being here?” Harry doesn't seem bothered by this and Louis starts to whisper-shout, grabbing Harry's shoulder. “Hey, hey.”

“Shut up.” Harry shushes him, “it's gonna be beautiful, regardless. Just enjoy it. Relax. Can you do that?” 

Harry's voice is low and feels like velvet bouncing off Louis' crisp skin. He's finally looking at him, and Louis has never seen him so serene. The creases on his forehead and those between his straight eyebrows are gone, and one could never guess that that smooth skin hides two deep lines. His mouth is stretched into a placid smile and it's such a soothing view that Louis feels himself relax, mirroring Harry's slack posture. 

Louis' response is trapped on the tip of his tongue, so he just nods, unable to tear his gaze away from Harry's. Louis wonders what he himself must look like. The hood has fallen from his head and his hair must be spiky, unruly. Louis brushes his fringe to the side in a self-conscious movement.

“Your eyes change colour sometimes. Now they're grey,” Harry says, voice soft and barely above a whisper.

Louis remains silent. He wishes he could make a blanket out of Harry's words, it would be plush to the touch and it would give off its own warmth. Louis’ vaguely aware that he’s still shaking, although he's no longer sure if the cold is the sole cause. He's silent, listening to the sound of the waves and the far away call of seagulls.

Billows of white clouds are suspended above their heads, behind them the sky is turning into a million different colours as the sun rises at an excruciatingly slow pace, languidly, leisurely. It's a rich purple that lightens up into a bright vermilion. Then it gradually subsides into a pale orange, then yellow. It's a glorious dawn that for a brief second tinges everything with warm hues, until the sky is of a greyish, pallid blue. The view is breathtaking, every sensation magnified tenfold by Louis' sleep deprived senses.

Louis' teeth are chattering but he becomes aware of that only when he feels a sudden warmth on his left side. Harry is pressing into him from shoulder to knee. Without saying anything, there's no room for words, Harry's arm circles Louis' slight frame and Louis moves closer, ever so little, snuggling against Harry's jacket. Louis' nose, flooded with the brackish smell of salty wind, spots a different, sweeter smell. He thinks it may be Harry's hair. 

It feels like neither of them has spoken in decades. It's Harry who eventually breaks the silence and, true to his character, it's to say something absolutely silly.

“Louis, look! We can see Ireland from here!”

When Harry speaks, the rumble of his deep voice makes his side vibrate against Louis' left arm.

“You can't be serious.”

Beyond the thin mist that still lingers above the sea, there are blurred shapes, unidentifiable. They look suspended above the water, resembling a mirage, like something you could see in a dream.

“I'm very serious,” Harry replies.

“Tell me you're kidding please.”

“Yes,” Harry giggles, his nose scrunching up. “When I was little my father used to tell me that you could see Ireland from here. I believed him; I unconditionally believed everything he said. I always wanted to go to Ireland, then. I still want to go.” 

“And did you come here often?”

“Yes, before the summer, me and my sister always bugged our parents to take us here. Those creepy statues weren't there yet. It was my favourite place to be and every year I looked forward to when we'd come back to Crosby Beach. Before everything went pear shaped. Before my parents divorced and my mum and sister moved to Cheshire.” Harry doesn't attempt to hide his wistfulness, his words dripping melancholy. 

“Why didn't you go to live with them?” Louis' hands are twitching. He feels the heavy feather-light press of Harry's hand on his upper arm, and his own palms are tingling with an urge to touch. 

“I didn't want to leave my father, he needed me. He still does. Everyone thinks I came back here because we failed as a band and Niall dumped me. And don't say you don't think that, too,” Harry doesn't let Louis interrupt him, “That's undoubtedly true. We failed. But the main reason is that my father needed me. He’s sick.”

Louis is experiencing an unsettling _de-ja vu_. Harry doesn't look anything like he had that night at The Jockey, but the way he speaks, the way he expresses himself, opening up to Louis whereas Louis has been nothing but tight-lipped towards him, the way Louis can tell he's being entirely sincere – it’s all so reminiscent. It's confusing, disquieting, disorienting. Louis listens, whole body tense, ears prickling. 

“He was very ill. He could've died, but they think he's out of danger now. His cancer is almost gone. I had to take care of him. My grandmother couldn't do it by herself, she's still strong, but not as strong as she used to be.”

A thin veil of clouds is obscuring the weak, early sunlight. Harry's skin is pearly, impossibly smooth and pale against his black scarf. He falls silent again.

“Is this why you’re so familiar with St. Mary's Hospital?” Louis asks.

“Yeah.” A small smile appears on Harry's face, “I often wander to the maternity ward when I take my dad in for dialysis. It makes me feel less sad, less hopeless. Seeing newborns, and women who have just become mothers, it never fails to make me feel better.”

Louis feels his chest tighten for a moment, and a ragged breath escapes him. He never wants to hear Harry say that he's sad, never again.

“Why did we hate each other in school?” Louis doesn't feel cold anymore, but he doesn't want to peel away from underneath Harry's arm. He doesn't think he’d be able to move a single muscle.

Harry shakes his head. “Because you only made fun of me and tackled me during footie practice.”

“Only because you were unbearably full of yourself.” Louis replies, disbelieving.

Harry jabs him in the ribs and Louis squeals.

“What the hell? Stop. I hate you again.” Louis is squirming.

“You don't sound very convincing.” Harry grins and Louis wants to slap him.

“No, I mean it. I'm extremely ticklish.” Louis throws his face in his hands. “Fuck, I shouldn't have said that.”

Louis wiggles out of Harry's grip and gets up. He checks his phone.

“It's almost seven, shall we head back?”

They make their way back to the street above in silence. There is no one in sight. Once they are sitting inside Harry's Peugeot, Louis feels ravenously hungry.

“I'm starved.” He slumps back in his seat, trying to reproduce the position he was in on their way there.

“We'll stop somewhere to get breakfast, I'm hungry too.”

Harry fumbles with the radio and one of his grunge songs starts playing

“Hey, you said you wouldn't make me listen to music I don't like,” Louis protests.

“You're right,” Harry mumbles, turning off the radio. “I'm sorry.” It's mostly swallowed up by the roar of the engine. But Louis thinks Harry's apologies are becoming kind of a refrain. And he doesn't like it.

“Just leave it on a radio station.”

An hour and a huge breakfast later – Louis took a white chocolate blueberry muffin while Harry devoured his whole grain carrot orange one, both ordered large cappuccinos – they are pulling in in front of Louis' house. The street is desolate, which is not a surprise considering it's early Sunday morning. Louis yawns, stretching his back and his neck, flinching when his bones crack loudly. 

Harry doesn't look like someone who hasn't slept all night. He looks young, fresh, sated. “That was fun, wasn't it?” Even his voice is sharp, not a hint of tiredness.

“Yes. I don't regret indulging into this whim of yours,” Louis admits, begrudged by his own acquiescence.

“It wasn't a whim. I'm not a child.” 

“Sometimes you act like one.”

Harry pouts, proving Louis' point. “Well.”

“Well.” Louis echoes.

Louis wants to leave the car, he really does. But Harry's eyes are keeping him in place, his legs anchored to the seat. It just feels so wrong, everything feels wrong. Louis is dizzy, his stomach buzzing as if he hasn’t just eaten a gigantic muffin. He feels the urge to stab his own belly to kill anything that has taken residence in it. 

“I'm sorry that I've dumped a load of information on you again like that. You never asked for it,” Harry starts, looking at Louis in earnest. “But you're always so reserved, so reticent to talk about anything that concerns you or your family. And I'm so afraid to ask you how you're really doing. Because I fear you might build up your walls all over again, and shut me out completely. I don't know what to do, so my natural reaction is to start ranting about myself. Perhaps I hope that if you feel like you know enough about me, and you think you can maybe trust me, you could choose to tell me something about yourself instead. One day. Sorry, I just ranted again.”

Harry's gaze lowers to his hands, which are still gripping the steering wheel, and he gives a short, mirthless laugh.

“You don't have to say you're sorry. Why are you always saying you're sorry?” Louis asks, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I like listening to your voice. I like getting to know you.”

Louis wants to take it all back as soon as the words leave his mouth, but it's too late. Something flickers across Harry's features, and his eyes land on Louis' lips.

Harry's face suddenly seems closer than it was before, and for a frightening, petrifying moment, Louis is sure Harry is going to do something unimaginable.

So Louis does the only thing he knows how to do in a situation of danger. He flees, slamming the door behind him. He doesn't look back, afraid of what he might do if he does.

*

Louis doesn't see Harry for the whole of the following week, nor does he hear from him. He keeps telling himself that there's no reason he should find this strange, there is no reason why Harry doesn't show up at the library. There is no reason why Zayn and Liam see Harry during the day, but at night, when they hang out at The Jockey, Harry excuses himself saying he's tired and he doesn't feel like going out. At least Louis is sure that he's not been kidnapped again.

Louis tells himself, over and over again, that everything's fine. 

That's why he absolutely isn't nervous when he leaves The Jockey early that Saturday night, asking Stan to cover for him, and takes a late night bus to West Gorton. Everyone's waiting for him. After calling a general 'hello', he hops into Sophie's car, waiting for Zayn to settle in the middle of the backseat, Harry on Zayn's other side. Liam is in the front seat next to Sophie. 

Louis hasn't been to a club in months, and he feels energy thrum through his veins as they approach central Manchester. Harry is bobbing his head to a bubblegum song that is playing through the radio, while Sophie's voice is clear as she sings along impressively. 

“You have such a good voice,” Harry says, genuinely awed. Liam isn't paying attention to them; both he and Zayn seem thoughtful. Louis strains to see Harry's face glowing in the bright light coming from the road. 

“Thanks,” Sophie stops singing to answer, looking pleased.

“Do you take singing lessons?” Harry asks.

Sophie giggles, “No, I just like to sing. I guess I'm a natural?” 

“Well, you should take lessons. I'm really impressed, you sound like a professional singer.”

Louis clears his throat loudly. “Is Amy waiting for us there?” he butts in. He just needed to say something, and that was the first thing that came to his mind.

“Yes, she's waiting for us to go in,” Sophie replies.

The club isn't as packed as Louis had feared, and as soon as they are in they make their way to the bar where there's only a small queue. 

“Congratulations, Payno!” Louis pats Liam's back vigorously. “You can finally get pissed. First round's on me.”

“Congratulations,” Zayn echoes, materialising at Liam's other side. He mimics Louis' gesture, letting his hand linger on Liam's shoulder for a second. Louis is utterly incredulous. 

The smile on Liam's face is even more incredible. Before Louis can think twice about that unusual exchange, though, he’s distracted by the bartender asking for their order. 

They bring their drinks to a small table they've occupied in a corner, and Louis flops down on one of the sofas. 

“I don't care if you get in or not, man. I'm very proud of you,” Louis tells Liam, unashamedly sappy, before clinking their glasses together. 

Liam's physical ability test had gone extremely well, and a proper night out was the least they could do to celebrate. He didn't know yet how his written test had gone, so he couldn't tell if he was going to get into the training programme or not. But he just had to wait now. He looked ten times less tense, like someone who had just finished his GCSEs and, even if they don't know their grades yet, they just want to forget about it for a bit and enjoy themselves. 

So Louis does his best to get Liam completely plastered, and soon enough everyone's tipsy. Amy and Sophie have disappeared on the dance floor, while Zayn is showing something to Harry on his phone. Harry's face is a pearlescent white in the screen light. Both he and Zayn are smiling.

“Oi! What are you doing? We're here too.” Louis scoots next to Zayn and takes the phone from his hand. Zayn was showing Harry his drawings.

“Louis!” Harry complains. “I wanted to see what Liam bought.”

Louis is momentarily stunned.

“You bought Zayn's art?”

“Yes, a couple things. A calendar, and an Iron Man t-shirt. It’s sick.” If Liam weren't so pissed, Louis would think he was delirious. But he doesn't look like he’s either; he's speaking as if his purchase is a perfectly normal occurrence. 

“So you two don't hate each other anymore!” Louis exclaims with extreme glee.

“I only appreciate him professionally,” Liam clarifies, but Louis sees Zayn smiling from his seat and the scene becomes even more surreal.

Louis downs the rest of his Jack and Coke and stands up. He can't sit still anymore; he needs to let off some steam.

“Let's go dance!” he shouts, his voice half drowned by the loud music. 

Harry stands up by Louis' side, and his bare arm brushes against Louis'. The hair on Louis' forearm bristles, and Louis jumps as if he’s been shocked. He doesn't know if Harry has noticed anything, but he starts to beckon Liam and Zayn, who are still sprawled on the club sofa. Louis doesn't want to go dance with Harry; his invite had included all three of the other boys.

Although they don't look particularly enthusiastic, Liam and Zayn join them and they mosey on through the dance floor, looking for Amy and Sophie. They don't have any luck though, so they settle in a spot not far from the DJ station. 

Zayn isn't much of a dancer; he just bounces his head to the rhythm, hips swaying slightly. Louis usually gives his everything when he goes clubbing, not caring who sees him jump left and right like a lunatic. But he doesn't feel like putting on a show right now, so he settles on simple movements of his arms and legs. He would've been upstaged anyway, because it looks like alcohol has made Liam more than a little uninhibited. He and Harry are throwing crazy shapes, making faces at each other as they dance. Maybe there's a challenge and whoever throws the most ridiculous move wins.

Louis' eyes, totally of their own accord, wander towards Harry's face, which is split in a huge grin. It looks like Harry could go on like that all night, like each song is his favourite, like if the world collapsed he'd just keep on dancing as if nothing had happened. It’s such an enthralling view, that Louis doesn't immediately notice when Sophie and Amy find them. 

Amy and Zayn disappear, while Sophie throws her hands around Liam's neck and they start to sway on the spot. Harry, unperturbed, keeps dancing by himself. Louis tries to relax, tries to enjoy himself, but there's something that he can't shake off. He looks around; maybe he can find Zayn and Amy and ask them if they want to go outside to have a smoke. When his eyes land on Harry again Louis is met with his hooded gaze. Louis feels self-conscious. He abruptly stops dancing. 

Out of the blue, Harry is right in front of him, ducking his head down. Louis is so shocked that he stays frozen still. 

“Do you want to get another drink?” Harry shouts into Louis' ear, his breath tickling Louis’ skin.

Louis moves his head away so fast his neck stings. He's confused for a moment but then he yells, “I gotta go to the loo,” and scurries away. 

He trudges aimlessly across the floor, feeling more drunk than tipsy, unapologetically bumping into strangers. He can't see anyone he knows, yet he doesn't know who exactly he’s looking for. But someone must have found him because he feels a hand wrap around his wrist, forcing him to turn around.

It's Nick.

He hauls Louis' body into his in a bone-crushing hug. When Nick lets him go, Louis is wobbly on his feet and grabs Nick's elbow to steady himself.

“You've disappeared,” Louis slurs into Nick's ear, and he's hit with the familiar scent. Clean clothes and expensive cologne.

Nick laughs, and Louis realises that Nick's hands are firmly planted on his hips.

“Didn't think you'd noticed.” Nick pulls him closer.

They're pressed together from head to toe now, Louis instinctively circling Nick's neck with his arms. He feels better now, the whirlwind of confusion that had clouded his mind gone. This is familiar, this is safe. This isn't uncharted territory. He knows Nick, Nick knows him. And Louis wants what Nick has always been there to give him. A quick fix. A momentary solution to Louis' worries. 

“I missed you.” Louis is about to nibble at Nick's earlobe when he remembers what Nick had told him the last time they saw each other. “Are you still seeing someone?”

“No, I'm not seeing anyone. Not anyone important. I missed you too.” Nick kisses Louis' neck. “Missed this,” he adds, hands lowering to cup Louis' arse.

Louis has to actually go onto his tippy-toes to kiss Nick, using his arms for leverage. They snog for a few minutes, Louis already feeling worked up and craving more. It feels like he hasn't gotten off in a very long time, and he can feel Nick's growing erection pressed into his own. They are surrounded by a sea of bodies, and Louis tugs on Nick's hand, slowly leading them through the crowd, until they reach the toilet. 

They find an empty stall and Nick instantly gets down on his knees and starts to unbutton Louis' jeans.

“What are – you're gonna get all dirty.” Louis is talking nonsense, mind clogged with arousal and alcohol. The view of Nick, in a silk shirt and black trousers that probably cost more than Louis' wage, knelt down in front of him in a filthy bathroom cubicle, is making him giddy.

“I don't care, I need to taste you.” Nick takes Louis' dick into his mouth without any warning, Louis moaning loudly at the unexpected hot wet feeling. Nick is really going at it, sucking Louis off like his life depended on it. One of his hands is gripping the base of Louis' cock while the other kneads his balls. Nick's middle finger slides between Louis' arse-cheeks and that's all it takes for Louis to spurt down Nick's throat, his legs almost giving out with how hard he is coming.

Nick springs to his feet and kisses Louis messily, Louis tasting himself on Nick's mouth. He's unable to form any coherent thought, still caught up in the aftershock of his orgasm. Nick takes his hand and guides it to his cock, and Louis starts to wank Nick off in an uneven rhythm. Nick comes into Louis' fist, his whole body shuddering. Louis snaps out of his haze when he doesn't feel Nick's lips on his anymore, and he sees Nick using some toilet paper to wipe at his cock. Then Nick removes his cum from Louis' fingers, tosses the paper in the toilet and crowds Louis against the plastic door.

“Had I already told you I missed you?” Nick is speaking against Louis' mouth, but Louis doesn't feel like kissing him more. He’s tired and he just wants to go home, have a shower and sleep. 

“You did.” Louis' surprised by how hoarse his own voice sounds. He isn't the one who just had his throat fucked. “I wanna get out of here.” 

Nick lets him go and Louis stumbles out of the stall, heading for the row of sinks. He looks properly fucked, lips swollen and bitten red, his hair a mess. He washes his hands while Nick does the same beside him. They're just out of the loo when Louis bumps into Zayn.

“Hey, I was looking for you,” Zayn says. “Oh. Nick.” 

Louis smiles sheepishly. 

“Hiya Zayn, how are you?” If Nick is embarrassed he doesn't let it show in the slightest.

“Fine, erm. We’re heading out. Liam's not feeling well and Sophie wants to take him home.” Zayn's words seem to come out strangled, but Louis doesn't have time to process that because a flushed Harry appears behind Zayn. He looks like he hasn't stopped dancing for a second.

“Here you are.” Harry's face drops as soon as he takes in Louis' state. His eyes widen and land on Nick, who is still standing by Louis' side. Then Harry looks away. 

“I'll go wait outside,” he tells Zayn before storming off.

Louis feels Nick's hand take his and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I'll see you soon, yeah?” Nick says, and kisses Louis on the cheek.

“Yeah,” Louis responds, voice weak.

“Gotta find my friends too. It was nice to see you, Zayn.” 

Nick vanishes into the thinning crowd and Louis follows Zayn to the club exit.

“Everything alright?” Zayn asks him.

Louis feels off, and he doesn't have the strength to hide it from Zayn. He feels the cloud of confusion returning, and his stomach is bugging him again. 

“Are you gonna be sick?” Zayn's alarmed tone only makes Louis' head reel more, his heart rate picking up.

As soon as they step out of the club, Louis staggers to a wall and bends forward, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the pavement, his hand gripping blindly at the bricks, looking for something to hold on to. He crouches down, unable to feel his legs. He's retching again, and feels a hand holding his sweaty fringe up. When Louis has dry heaved for a solid minute, and the spasms are finally subsiding, two hands slip under his armpits and haul him to his feet. 

“I can't believe this,” it must be Amy speaking, “men can't hold their liquor. First Liam then Louis. Unbelievable.”

“Amy, will you shut up,” Zayn rebukes, but he feels distant to Louis' ears. “Harry, he needs to put this on.” 

Louis manages to open one eye and sees Zayn, Amy and Sophie looking at him with a mixture of worry and annoyance. Someone – Harry – helps him into his parka.

“Do you still feel like you need to throw up?” Harry asks him, his voice gentle but strained. Louis isn't sure. 

Louis shakes his head no, his body dangerously leaning to one side, but before he tumbles down, Harry's hands are back on his shoulders, steadying him. 

“'m fine,” Louis grumbles, “'m sleepy.” 

Harry helps Louis into the car and Louis plonks down next to a sound asleep Liam. He must've dozen off too, because, next thing he knows, Harry is nudging his side to wake him up.

“We're here,” Harry whispers.

Louis' world is still spinning, but he manages to get out of Sophie's car. “Thank you,” he drawls, talking to no one in particular. 

“Can you manage?” Louis is aware of Harry's hand gripping his shoulder, and he forces his eyes open.

“Yes, Harry,” Louis says. He can't make out Harry's face. It's dark and he's seeing double. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight.” Harry says, before letting him go. 

Louis wobbles to the front door, miraculously finding his keys on the first try. He gets into his house, makes it upstairs and takes off his jacket. He collapses into his bed and falls asleep at once.

*

Something had gone wrong. Well, more wrong than usual. It was supposed to be a quiet evening; Louis was going to enjoy his night off by staying at home avoiding any human contact. But it turned out the universe had other plans. Louis' father had a habit of passing out when he's drunk, but nothing like _that_ had ever happened. Chris often blacks out, more than properly falling asleep. But he'd never looked like that, not that Louis remembers. He didn’t seem unconscious, because his pale blue eyes were semi open, yet it didn't seem like he could make out anything that was happening either, or respond to anything Louis was saying or doing, and his pulse was really weak. 

Louis had found him throwing up on the bathroom floor, like he hadn't the strength to reach the toilet bowl. There was an empty bottle of cheap vodka at his feet. Louis was afraid that if he’d started to puke again, he’d have choked on his own vomit. He had resolved to call 999. With Ian's help, Louis had dragged Chris out of the bathroom, but they had given up on taking him downstairs. He was too heavy and it would've been too risky. Ruby had begun to clean up the bathroom floor, while trying to get in contact with Claire.

Thirty minutes later, Louis had heard the siren of the ambulance and had gone downstairs to open the door for the paramedics. Louis remembers being asked a lot of questions that he’d tried to answer. He’d felt lucid in that moment, but afterwards everything was jumbled up in his memory and his headache made it impossible for him to recall every detail. He remembers his father being wrapped up in a sort of blanket, which oddly resembled a shroud. The paramedics used it to carry him downstairs. Louis remembers arguing one of them because they hadn’t wanted to let him in the ambulance. They kept saying they'd take his father to St. Mary's Hospital and that he'd have to drive there on his own. Considering he doesn't own a car nor does he have a driving license, Louis must've been adamant. In the end, they'd let him sit in the front of the ambulance. 

When they'd arrived at the hospital, while his father was transferred from the stretcher to a trolley, Louis had been ushered in a waiting room. 

That's where he’s been sitting for the past half hour, still shocked. Even though they had assured him his father would be alright, he can't help the panic rising in his chest. Just before the arrival of the ambulance, his father's pulse had been so weak Louis wasn't sure if he still had one. And, although he’d been shivering the whole time, he had gone completely still. But the doctor had guaranteed that Chris was still alive. 

He sees a nurse approaching him. He gets on his feet. 

“Are you Louis Tomlinson?” she asks him, rather brusquely.

The nurse has almond eyes and a slight eastern European accent. 

Louis nods. “Where's my father?”

“He's being hospitalised. He’s suffering from severe alcohol poisoning. We're getting his stomach pumped, but he'll be alright. Follow me, please.”

Louis follows her into a lift. They get to the fifth floor and the nurse leads him into a large corridor.

“Wait here, we'll inform you when the procedure is complete.” 

Louis sits down on a black plastic chair. He fumbles through his pockets until he finds his phone. He dials Claire's number. 

“Louis,” she picks up after one ring, her voice thick with worry.

“Did you get home?” 

“Yes, we're here. How's Dad?”

“He's gonna be fine. They just told me it was alcohol poisoning. I haven't seen him yet,” Louis replies, with all the reassurance he can muster.

“Oh. Ok, let us know when you can speak to him.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. Get back to you later.”

Louis' heart is still beating fast, his hands shaking. He inhales and exhales deeply, trying to calm himself down. He'd like to not be alone in that moment, but there's no one he can call apart from his siblings. They’re too young to deal with this, yet they’re the ones who have to go through this with him. He debates calling Liam or Zayn, but it's late and he doesn't want to bother them.

He doesn't know how much time has passed, but his thoughts are interrupted by the same nurse that spoke to him earlier. She guides him into a room that looks much like the room where Louis visited Rebecca a few weeks before. There are three beds, but only one is occupied. His father is lying on his back, asleep. There's an IV connected to his arm, a clear liquid drips down the tube. Chris' face looks extremely thin, his cheeks sunken. 

“The doctor will arrive in a minute.” The nurse retreats in a corner, as if trying to give Louis space. 

Louis just stands a few meters away from his father's bed, unable to tear his gaze away until someone else enters the room. 

“I'm Dr. Fielding. Your father had alcohol poisoning. You've told the doctor who took you here that he's alcoholic. Since when?”

“Erm, it started to get bad about three years ago.”

“Ok. I have the results of his blood tests, several are out of range. Essentially, his liver might be malfunctioning. And he has shown abnormal blood glucose levels.” 

Louis wants to ask a hundred questions.

“It doesn't look like his life is in immediate danger, but we'll have to make an abdominal ultrasound and further blood tests.”

“Ok,” Louis sighs, slightly relieved. It could've gone worse.

“We'll have to keep him here at least another couple of days, though. In a matter of hours, he'll start to show signs of alcohol withdrawal. It's a serious condition, and it's important that it is treated in the right way and that the symptoms are completely gone before he's able to go home.”

Louis spends the rest of the night in the hospital room. His father doesn't wake up.He calls Miss Evans around eight and explains the situation. He won't have to work until Friday. Around nine another doctor shows up, Dr. Goose. She takes the ultrasound.

“Your father's liver is enlarged, which, coupled with his blood tests, could mean he has alcoholic hepatitis. It's still in the early stages, so his liver will almost certainly go back to a normal size if he stops drinking.” Dr. Goose pauses, leveling Louis with a serious stare. “What I'm worried about is his glucose levels. Your father has pre-diabetes, Mr. Tomlinson. If he doesn't change his lifestyle, he will develop type 2 diabetes. It's vital that he stops drinking and keeps his blood sugar levels under control.”

Louis is speechless. He doesn't know what to say, he doesn't know how he should be reacting.

“You've been here since last night,” Dr. Goose says before the silence gets uncomfortable. “You should leave and come back later. Is there no one else that can be here at least until your father wakes up?”

Louis is about to shake his head no, when, as if on cue, Louise pops up at the room's door. Her platinum blonde hair shimmers in the bright hospital lights. She's wearing a miniskirt and high heel black boots. Louis doesn't miss the dirty look Dr. Goose flashes her.

“Looks like I've arrived at the right time,” Louise chirps, ignoring Dr. Goose's scowl.

“What are you doing here?” Louis asks, surprised.

“Claire called me,” she replies, “I'm here to help you, Louis. I'll take over from here, you go home and rest. Your sisters and Ian need you. I can stay with him until eight tonight.” Louise is right. Louis is dead on his feet and he wants to check on his siblings. Louis reluctantly leaves. 

On the bus home he calls Greg, asks him if he can find someone to cover his shifts for a couple of days. He calls Liam next. “I won't be working in the next few days,” Louis informs him.

“Why, what happened?” 

“My dad’s in hospital. Alcohol poisoning.” Louis is glad he's telling this over the phone, he wouldn't be able to say it so casually if Liam was there before him. 

“Is he alright?” Liam asks.

“Will be.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No, just need to tell Zayn.” And Harry? Louis pushes that thought away.

“Harry's still in Cheshire,” Liam says, as if he could read Louis' mind through the phone. 

Right. Harry's been in Cheshire visiting his mum for the last week, and he and Louis haven't been very much in contact. It's hard for Louis to realise he misses talking to him, but ever since the night at the club things have been weird between them. Which doesn't make any sense because nothing happened. After he has called Liam though, Louis doesn't have the strength to call Zayn right away.

*

He hadn't expected to find his house empty, but oddly enough, Ruby is the only one who had stayed home from school. She's huddled under a blanket on the settee, a book in her lap.

“How are you, babe?” Louis asks, sitting down next to her and taking off his shoes. His feet ache and he feels exhausted. It doesn’t look like Ruby has slept much either. Her brown hair is ruffled and she's still wearing her fleece pyjamas. 

“Tired. I didn't feel like going to school, but I managed to convince Ian to go.” She smiles weakly,

“You did well. He has to go, he can't afford to miss any more school days.” Louis slings an arm around her shoulders. “Did you know Claire called Louise?”

“Yes, she came by last night. Wanted to see how we were doing. I think I like her Louis, she's a good person.”

“Of course she is, it doesn't matter what she does for a living. She's with Dad now, I'm going back to the hospital tonight.”

“Is he gonna be ok?” Ruby's big brown eyes are scared and sad. Louis would do anything to make her feel better.

“Hope so. I mean yes, but I don't know what he'll say when he regains consciousness.” Louis lets Ruby snuggle against his side and kisses the top of her head.

Later in his bed Louis can't fall sleep. Although he had slept a little the night before after the nurse had brought him a reclinable chair, he doesn't feel well rested. But, as usual, sleep eludes him. 

In the late afternoon Louis goes to The Jockey to talk to Greg. Greg is nothing but accommodating and Louis doesn't think he could have wished for a better boss. He goes back home and has dinner with his sisters and Ian and then takes another bus to Manchester. It takes him forever because he has to change at West Gorton, but around eight he's back in his father's room. 

“How is he doing?” he asks Louise in lieu of a greeting.

“He woke up earlier. He didn't seem too happy. He kept saying he wants to go home, that there’s no reason he should be here.” She looks as tired as Louis feels. “He had a seizure, or something like that. I was scared, but the nurse told me it happens frequently with withdrawal syndrome. They've adjusted his drugs, so he should be fine now.”

The nurse from the night before comes in. 

“Good evening Mr. Tomlinson. Your father is doing fine, in a couple of days he will be able to go home. I think we should discuss your options now.” 

Louis feels cornered; something doesn't sit right with him. The nurse's accent accentuates her authoritative tone. He doesn't like her, he decides. But that doesn't really matter, his dad's health is more important.

“You have to consider sending your father into a rehabilitation facility. Although it might not be the most affordable option.”

Louis and Louise scoff at the same time.

“We definitely can't afford to pay for rehab, even if my father ever agreed. Which he wouldn't.” This whole conversation is chafing him already.

“Ok, so the cheapest option is Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Do you think your father would be willing to join an AA program?”

“I highly doubt it.” Louis replies wryly. He definitely knows his father would never agree to that.

“Your father's health will be at risk if he doesn't do anything about it. Once he leaves this hospital, his body won't be dependent on alcohol anymore. But it's the emotional dependency we have to treat. If he doesn't get the proper help he'll have a drink in hand the moment he steps outside of this room.” 

The nurse is lecturing him as if Louis was an immature kid, too lazy or too uninterested in helping his father, and he feels anger bubble up in his throat. “What can we do if he doesn't want to get better? We can't exactly force him to do anything he doesn't want to do.”

Louis doesn't like this person, but he is glad the nurse is speaking to him, and that they haven’t called a social worker. It would've been a disaster. In the worst case scenario, Ian and Ruby would be sent to foster families. The mere thought makes a cold shiver run down his spine. 

“We'll figure something out,” Louis says, dismissive. He feels too drained to focus at the moment.

The nurse leaves. Louise starts to gather her things – a gossip magazine, a pen, a bottle of black nail polish.

“If your mother was here –”

“She isn't, Louise,” Louis cuts her off. “That’s the main problem, innit?”

“I know. But you wouldn't have to deal with this, you know. You're still a kid.”

“I'm not a kid, I'm twenty-one. I've been dealing with this for the past three years.” 

“I'm sorry, Louis. I don't know what I can do to help you. I don't really know how we could convince Chris to get proper help, but just know that I'm here whenever you need help.”

And Louis is grateful for that. Louise is the only person he has left that was close with his parents. He doesn't have any uncles or aunts, and his grandparents are all dead. He doesn't want to push her away if she is willing to help them to the best of her ability.

“I know, thank you Louise,” Louis says with earnest.

She smiles a sad smile and leaves. The spicy scent of her tacky perfume lingers in the air for a while, but it's soon drowned out by the smell of hospital disinfectant.

Louis goes to the loo and when he comes back he finds that his father is awake.

“Louis,” he calls, and Louis is immediately at his side.

“I wanna go home.” Chris speaks slowly and with difficulty. His throat must still be sore from the tube they inserted to pump his stomach. “I think they're drugging me, these doctors are leeches. They don't want me to get better, I'm not sick. I've just been feeling worse since I've been here.” 

“Dad, you're going through withdrawal. You'll feel better in no time.” Louis doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he stuffs them into his pockets.

“But I just need a drink, I'm sure that if they let me drink a beer I would feel immediately better. What harm could a beer do?” He looks delirious.

Louis knows that trying to make his father reason is useless. He tries to explain to him why he absolutely can't drink anymore. He's sure the doctor has already informed him of his health condition, but Louis thinks it won't do any harm for Chris to hear it all over again. His father doesn't seem too fazed though. He keeps underestimating his problem. 

Louis feels angry. And then he starts to feel guilty, like an utter failure. He knows, on a rational level, that it's not his fault that his father is an alcoholic, and Louis knows that he has already tried in the past, on several occasions, to convince him to stop drinking. But it had been useless. Yet, he thinks he could've cared more about him, he could've tried harder. But how could he, when his father acted like he didn’t care about his four children? He didn't care about his firstborn, he didn't care about his two daughters, he didn't care about Ian who was only ten when things had started to really go downhill.

In the darkest corners of Louis' mind, there's a voice telling him that it's so painfully obvious that his father doesn't love them, and that if he had a choice he'd rather not have any children at all. Yet why does Louis still feel guilty that his father might become seriously ill? Why does he feel the need to fight with him and try to convince him to quit drinking? He feels terrible. 

Louis decides to go home that night, his dad fast asleep at ten. It would be useless to spend another night passed out on a reclinable hospital chair. 

When he arrives home, Louis finds Zayn at his kitchen table drinking tea with Claire.

“How are you mate?” Zayn asks him as soon as he has closed the front door behind him. 

“Zayn, I'm sorry I didn't reply to your texts.” Louis feels another pang of guilt in his chest, this time for having ignored his best friend's messages.

After Louis has updated Claire on their father's condition, she hugs him briefly, rinses her cup in the sink and disappears upstairs.

“I should've called you earlier, Zayn.” Louis is sitting next to Zayn with a contrite expression.

“Well, I had to find out your father was in hospital from Liam. And Lilah.” Zayn scoffs, but he doesn't look angry. “I wasn't glad you didn't tell me, but I don't care. I'm here now,” he concludes, and Louis gives him a tight one-armed hug.

“What the hell are those?” Louis asks, bug-eyed, noticing a heap of beer cartons in a corner.

“Oh, that's non-alcoholic beer. I know it's not the ideal beverage for a recovering addict, but it may help in the beginning. I don't know, I feel stupid now. I can take it back if you don't want it,” Zayn babbles, wincing.

“No, yes, of course I want it. How much were they?”

“No, don't even mention it. You don't have to pay me back.” 

“I can't accept them.” Louis feels on the verge of a crying outburst.

Zayn is adamant.

“I love you,” Louis says, insensitive appearance be damned.

“Love you too, man. Have you heard from Harry?”

“No.” Louis frankly has no idea why Zayn is asking him that. “Is he still in Cheshire?”

“He's coming back tomorrow. Is everything alright between you two?” Zayn says, avoiding Louis' inquisitive gaze.

“Yes, of course. Why are you asking me?”

“I was just wondering. Never mind, forget I asked you.” Zayn shrugs.

Louis is too tired to retort, he lets it drop.

*

Louis' dad is discharged from the hospital two days later, and he spends all day in bed for a week. He drinks the non-alcoholic beer Zayn had brought, but it doesn't look like he has any intention to stop going to bars once he feels better. 

Louis feels helpless, it doesn't matter how much they argue, how much Louis tries to make him come to his senses. Every time he thinks his father might be starting to really understand what the consequences of a relapse would be, he says something that crushes Louis. It's impossible to change his mind.

Louis has been ignoring Harry's calls and replied to his texts with a few stilted words. He doesn't feel like talking to anyone, he feels like a robot. He goes to work, acts as if everything is fine, he jokes with Prue and Julian, he performs his daily tasks on autopilot. 

Meanwhile, his home feels like a house of mourning. His sisters try to keep each other strong, even though Louis is not there to help them most nights and he feels like shit for that. Ian is hardly ever at home. Louis knows he must be going to school and completing his homework because he hasn’t heard anything to the contrary from his teachers, but he’s at home as little as possible, and Louis can't really blame him. 

His father emerges from his room a week later. He starts to laze around the house, always a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. That is, until one morning Louis sees him dressed, his hair looking oddly clean. Louis doesn't think much of it. Around twelve he hears the doorbell ring and he goes to answer it.

At first Louis doesn't recognise her without the nurse uniform, but her peculiar features and eastern accent give her away.

“Hi, Louis.” Her voice is mellow, and Louis doesn't remember her calling him anything other than 'Mr. Tomlinson' while his father had been in the hospital. “I hope you remember me. My name is Sasha Iskayeva.” She extends her hand towards him. Louis is still a bit taken aback and his hand is limp, but she shakes it vigorously. 

“Sasha.” Louis' head whips around when he hears his father's cheerful voice. He looks almost unrecognizable, smiling brightly, his yellowed teeth on display. “Come on in.”

Louis steps to the side and Sasha unceremoniously walks past him. Louis must have a stunned expression but no one is paying attention to him. It's clear his father was expecting a visitor, and now he acts as if Louis isn't still standing by the door, dumbfounded. 

Louis goes upstairs, faintly hearing his father asking if Sasha wants a cup of tea. He throws himself on the duvet, unable to make sense of what he has just witnessed. 

In the following weeks, Louis' father still hasn't relapsed, and he receives more and more visits from this woman. Louis doesn't even attempt to ask him anything; he makes himself invisible anytime she's in their home. His sisters and Ian don't really know what's going on, at least as far as Louis is aware. They don't talk about their father's apparently successful recovery. Everything is strange. 

*

He sees Harry one day at work. It's only ten thirty and Louis had slept less than four hours the night before. He's sitting at the front desk, trying to keep his head from falling flat on the table. He is finding it hard to not yawn in the patrons' faces. 

Before he sees Harry, he sees a large, plastic Costa cup slammed on the counter. 

“Good morning. How are you?” Harry greets him. 

Louis looks up at him blearily, eyes peeking through his unkempt fringe. He hadn't been arsed to try and make himself look presentable that morning. He knows for a fact that he looks like a mess. Harry, on the contrary, looks well rested, fresh like spring itself, a cheeky smile on his face.

“Fine, thanks,” Louis replies, voice flat. “What about you?” Louis hesitates, seeing Harry is holding another cup in his hands.

“That's your tea, by the way,” Harry informs him, sheepishly, moving the cup towards Louis. 

“Oh, thanks.” Louis takes a sip and involuntarily slumps on his chair, feeling his neck and shoulders relax. It's incredible what tea can do to cheer you up, Louis thinks, realising in that moment just how much he’d needed it. 

“I'm all right, yeah. Just have some books to return.” Louis sees Harry rummaging in his satchel, until he produces _A Tale of Two Cities_ and _Wuthering Heights_.

Louis grabs them without a word and proceeds to scan them. 

“Sorted,” Louis says, flashing Harry a brief, perfunctory smile. But Harry stands there, showing no intention to leave.

“Are you free for lunch?” Harry asks, a grin plastered on his face.

Louis is staring at him, momentarily unable to form a response. He doesn't _not_ want to have lunch with Harry, but he doesn't know if he wants to either. His prospect was that or an hour alone, since neither Prue nor Julian are working that day.

“Lunch on me?” Harry tries again, with an expression intended to make the offer enticing. 

Louis' eyes shoot daggers at him. 

“Ok, scratch that.” Harry quickly rectifies. “Lunch.” He repeats, still grinning. 

“Ok, I guess,” Louis decides, mustering a small smile in return. “I'll see you later, then?”

“Yes!” Harry exclaims. “I'll wait for you outside the entrance.” 

A few hours later, after he’s put on his parka, now without the sheepskin lining, Louis heads out of the library.

It's late April and the weather is mild, despite the light rain that has been falling constantly during the last few days. It's humid but by no means cold, and the poplars in West Gorton Park are no longer bare and glum. They shimmer, bright green leaves covered in raindrops. Louis is about to put on his hood when Harry appears at his side and makes room for him under his purple polka dot umbrella.

They decide to go to the cafe on the other side of the park, where Louis has now eaten a couple of times. He ought to ask about a loyalty card, Louis thinks idly. In no time they are sitting at a small, square table in a corner, their food in front of them. When Harry takes off his jacket Louis sees that he's wearing yet another one of his faded band t-shirts. This time though, Louis finds that he kind of likes it. It's a Stone Roses shirt, with a section of a lemon that was probably once a bright yellow, but is now washed out and faded. 

“Do you like it?” Harry asks, noticing Louis' lingering stare.

“It doesn't look too bad. I think I like one of their songs, right?”

“Yes, you do. I will have to make you listen to them more,” Harry smirks.

“We'll see,” Louis replies.

After they've been eating in silence for a while, Louis asks, “So how were your mum and sister?”

He can't believe it's been so long since he last properly spoke to Harry, but it had been because of a combination of different factors. First his father's illness, then his desire to speak to as few people as possible. Even though Liam, Zayn and Harry had all been visiting him at The Jockey during those weeks, Louis had kept the interactions to a basic level.

“Everything's alright. Gemma is moving into a new flat with her boyfriend, so it looks like things between them are serious,” Harry begins, conversationally. “My mum’s ok, although she spent the first two days I was there complaining that I hadn't visited her for months and months. If she’d kept going on about it, I would've left on the third day.” He stabs the salad leaves on his plate, as if they had personally offended him.

“She really cares about you,” Louis states.

“Of course she does,” Harry replies, casual, as if that’s the most natural thing in the world. Louis would like to tell him that, no, that's not always the case, but he tries to push the thought away, concentrating on his lunch instead. He doesn't feel all that hungry anymore, but he forces himself to eat and he gulps down half a bottle of water in one go. 

“How are things with you, then?” Harry asks with ill-concealed hesitancy. “How's your dad?” 

Louis sighs, head bowed. He knew the topic was inevitable; he’s sure Zayn and Liam have talked about his situation with Harry. Which was fine, because Zayn and Liam think he and Harry are friends. Although if they were really friends, wouldn’t Louis have told Harry firsthand?

Louis can deal with Liam's sorrowful, puppy eyes and his half-arsed attempts to cheer him up with offers to join him for a run or for some other type of physical activity. And Liam does that every time, even though Louis hasn't been running since he stopped playing footie three years before, and he always ends up declining Liam's offer. And Louis knows how to deal with Zayn's tight hugs, and the way Zayn knows when he has to leave Louis be and when, instead, he has to call him until he picks up or he has to come knocking on his door. He didn't know what to expect from Harry though. That's why he didn't say anything to him. 

“It's ok if you don't want to talk about it. I get it,” Harry hurries to add when Louis doesn't answer. 

Louis is even more irritated by his unassertive tone. It's not like Louis is some breakable doll that will crumble to pieces if you treat him too roughly. Perhaps Louis preferred when Harry treated him like he used to when they were in school, perhaps he liked it more when he could tell him that he's an asshole and hear Harry insult him back. But the thought of deliberately offending Harry now only makes Louis wince.

“Shall we go?” Louis says, standing up. Harry follows suit. They pay and grab takeaway coffee on their way out. Louis is afraid he came across as plain rude. If Harry was bothered by his refusal to talk though, he doesn't show it. He cheerily points out that it has stopped raining and they start to stroll through the park, sipping their coffees and chattering about trivialities. They are almost in front of the library entrance, but Louis doesn't have to go back inside yet. 

“Let's sit down for a minute,” Harry suggests.

Louis is about to do just that when Harry squeaks and grabs his arm, stopping him.

“The bench is wet. Let me just –” Harry hands Louis his coffee and produces some tissues from his pocket. He wipes at the surface of the wooden bench until it's mostly clean.

“Oh my God, Harry.” Louis laughs, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation.

“What?” Harry counters, sitting with a satisfied look on the now dry bench.

“Nothing, just. You're unbelievable sometimes.” 

“I didn't want to ruin my pants,” Harry replies with a grin, looking pleased with himself.

Louis shoots him an amused look. Harry's jeans look frayed and there are two large gashes on each knee. Louis doesn't know how he does that, but Harry giggles and shrugs at the same time and resumes drinking his coffee with an angelic expression. The air around them smells like sharp spring rain and Harry's hair is frizzy. Louis observes him from the corner of his eyes before setting his empty coffee on the side of the bench.

“My dad is doing alright, I think,” Louis says, and Harry does a double take. “It's strange to see him like this,” Louis continues. “He hasn't been drinking since he got back from the hospital.”

“Don't take this the wrong way, Louis. But you don't seem too happy about it,” Harry says, careful.

“No, of course I'm happy about it. I just don't understand what's going on. I think he's seeing this woman?” Louis is confused; he hasn't told anyone about the nurse that his dad is seeing. He doesn't know what to make of it. “She’s a nurse at St. Mary's Hospital, and she seems to have taken my father's case to heart.”

Harry's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Well, that's good. Isn't it?”

“Yeah, I suppose. I just don't like her very much. I mean, I don't know her, but she doesn't give off positive vibes. To me, at least.”

“But your father likes her, yeah?” 

Louis nods.

“And he's doing better, so that's good,” Harry adds.

Louis doesn't sound too convinced but he hums a 'yes' anyway. 

*

On May Day the lads decide it would be a great idea to go 'have a picnic somewhere outdoors', much to Louis' horror. He has no idea what to expect; Liam just told him to dress comfy and that he doesn't have to bring anything to eat because he, Harry, and Zayn will think about food and drinks. Louis gets up at arse o'clock and puts on a pair of old jeans, a green hoodie and trainers. He forgoes his cigarettes, leaving the pack on his bedside table and feeling rather proud of himself. If he has to spend the day immersed in nature, he can very much well do without the devilish sticks. He's found he doesn't particularly like the smell they leave on his hands and hair, now that he smokes less. 

On the bus to West Gorton he asks Zayn if he has any idea where they're going to go.

“Nope. But Liam told me Harry has everything organised. Control freak, these two. You didn't bring anything?” Zayn eyes him up and down, as if he thinks Louis is hiding something.

“What? Liam told me I didn't have to bring anything.” Louis sees that Zayn has small backpack, now resting at his feet on the bus floor.

“Yeah, you're right. They’ll have brought everything we need, I'm sure.”

As they climb into his car, Harry looks deliriously enthusiastic, like a kid on his way to Disneyland. Louis can't help but smile and reply with a matching chipper tone, Harry's euphoria infecting him for a split second.

“Will you tell us when we're headed now?” Louis asks.

“We’ll stop in Malham,” Harry replies, joining the M60.

“For heaven's sake, where on earth is that?” Louis looks at Zayn, looking for sympathy.

“Louis, I'm appalled by your geographical ignorance,” Liam chimes in from the front seat.

“Shut up, Liam. I failed geography twice.”

“It's in North Yorkshire, Louis,” Harry says, waving his free hand in the air, as if that is the most obvious thing in the world.

“But it's so far away,” Louis complains.

“That's why we're leaving so early.” Harry would be a perfect American soccer mom, Louis thinks.

“It's gonna take us ages,” Louis continues, whiny.

“No, we'll be there in less than two hours.” Harry sounds sure of that.

“Shut up. Have a kip,” Liam shoots at him, over his shoulder.

Louis flips Liam off, waving his hand in his face from the back seat. Liam swats his hand away.

“I will never fall asleep, I'm mad at you. I didn't sign up for this.” No one bothers to acknowledge his grumpiness, so he lounges back in his seat, his head on Zayn's shoulder. He hears the other three chatting about random stuff, sure he’d be unable to doze off with all that noise.

He must have been sound asleep for a while though, because he wakes up and realises he's lying half on top of Zayn, his head resting in Zayn's lap. He knows perfectly well what woke him, Liam and Harry obnoxiously singing along to some Oasis song that he doesn't remember the title of. He bolts upright. His neck is stiff and he gingerly turns to his right and then to his left. He has to stop falling asleep in cars.

“Where are we?” He sounds groggy, and he clears his throat, squinting his eyes in the sunlight. It looks like a really dry, sunny day. They aren't on the motorway anymore, but on a country road. Great expanses of green stretch out from both sides of the road, heaths sparsely scattered with trees. They're tall, towering over the azure, cloudless sky, as they speed through a countryside that looks endless.

“Almost there,” Zayn informs him, speaking over the other two's voices. “You've slept for more than an hour. You happy?” he laughs, his nose crinkled up.

“Very much!” Louis replies. He can't wait to stretch his legs though; he's never been a big fan of long car trips.

Louis spends the rest of the journey with his nose attached to his window, as verdant, lush slopes of multicoloured patches of grass rush before his eyes. Meanwhile, Liam and Harry continue their mini Oasis concert, and Zayn snoozes beside him. The road gradually narrows, until they're forced to proceed at minimum speed. They arrive in a small village surrounded by stone walled pastures and they park in front of the post office. It's still very early, so there's almost no one around. Harry opens the boot and they all scramble out of the car.

“Ok, so,” Harry starts, hands on his hips. “We have to split the bags. There are two cooler backpacks, and they're pretty heavy so we'll take turns. Liam,” Harry's practical tone is so amusing, “Here's your bag.” Louis is closer so he takes the backpack from Harry and hands it to Liam. It's fucking heavy.

“What the hell did you put inside that? Your house?” Louis asks.

“No, there's only, erm. Plastic tableware, a first aid kit, sun cream, anoraks, and some extra clothing for if it gets cold.” Liam lists off, smiling, unabashed.

“We're going for a walk, Liam. We're not going to war!” Louis is about to crack up at Liam's excessive scrupulousness, when Harry flashes him a stern look.

“This isn't a simple walk Louis. We're going _hiking_ ,” Harry emphasises the word in a ridiculous way, “We have to be prepared. And I'm the only one wearing the appropriate footwear.” Louis scans everyone's feet. Zayn is wearing trainers like him, Liam's wearing some kind of winter stringed ankle boots. Harry has on what look like proper hiking shoes. “Preposterous.” Harry mutters under his breath.

“Well, I didn't have any appropriate _footwear_.” Louis exclaims mocking Harry's pomposity. “Shoot me already. I will only be a burden for you. Go on without me.” Over dramatic strop, check, and it's not even ten o'clock.

“Don't be stupid, you'll carry this for the first half hour.” Harry holds out one of the cooler backpacks, and Louis moves to grab it. But Harry shakes his head and motions for Louis to turn around. He adjusts the backpack on Louis' shoulders and it's even heavier than Liam's bloody bag. But Louis steels himself and doesn't protest, even if he has to literally bite his tongue to keep himself quiet. He flashes a disingenuous smile too Harry, who slings on the other cooler.

“We're going to reach Malhan Tarn in approximately an hour and a half,” Harry announces, extracting a map from his backpack.

They walk, and walk, and walk. Louis can only think that if he’d wanted to spend his days off doing this he’d have signed up for bloody DofE, but he doesn't want to let a single complaint escape his mouth. The uphill route isn’t too steep, but it's probably the warmest day of the year so far, and soon Louis feels sweat pooling on his skin underneath his hoodie.

“Gross,” he hisses, trying to keep his breathing steady. But he's out of shape, there's no denying it. Harry and Liam are leading the way, seemingly unruffled by the physical effort and the heat. Zayn is plodding along him, panting.

“We need to quit smoking, bro,” he huffs.

“Yes, and I'm not even joking. And you're only carrying your weeny backpack, this thing I have on my back weighs a tonne.”

“Do I hear someone complaining?” Harry yells from a few meters ahead of them. He and Liam laugh. “Do you want to take a break? We've only been walking for forty-five minutes.”

Louis doesn't reply, because if he did his voice would give him away. He might not be physically fit, but he is resilient. 

“Louis, are you ok with your bag?” Harry asks him. Louis only gives him a thumbs up. He has to preserve his breath. 

They keep walking.

“I wondered lonely as a cow,” Harry bellows without any warning, and Louis can't help but start laughing hysterically, his lungs burning.

“As a cloud, William,” Louis chirps when he has enough breath.

“Oh my God, it's that movie about Wordsworth's life? What was its name?” Liam is laughing too now.

“I don't remember the title. They forced us to watch it in Year 11.” Louis' head whips around and he can't believe Zayn is able to talk without sounding like he's dying.

“Pandemonium,” Louis supplies, trying to mask his struggle. “You'd be a great Wordsworth, Harry.” 

The landscape around them slowly changes, the declines of green and greener grass gradually transforming until there are grey-white rocks and sheep everywhere. They reach Malham Tarn around one o’clock, and Louis is famished.

“So, was it worth it?” Harry looks unfazed by the long walk. They hadn't even stopped once along the way in the end, Louis too stubborn to ask for one. 

Louis plonks down onto a flat rock and observes the small lake before him. The view is certainly beautiful, and there's no one around, but Louis is sure he'll appreciate the scenery much more when he doesn't feel like there's a hole in his stomach. Everyone is extremely hungry and Harry opens one of the cooler bags to reveal a pile of Tupperware containers. Louis' mouth waters.

“So, what do we have here?” Harry extracts each container and sets it on a tablecloth previously spread out on the ground by Liam. “Couscous salad, spring rolls, pea and bacon pasties and scotch eggs.” Everything looks delicious. “And carrot cake for pudding.” Harry pulls out the last box, which contains little cube shaped slices of carrot cake, the icing white and inviting. Louis now wants to start with dessert. They all throw themselves into the food.

“Wow, did you cook all of this by yourself?” Liam looks genuinely impressed, and he's unashamedly speaking with his mouth full. 

“No, my grandma helped me.” Harry looks smug nonetheless.

After their meal, they are all too full to do anything but laze around on the rocks, enjoying the pretty view. Harry is perusing his Yorkshire Dales guide. He looks very serious, his forehead creased.

“What's wrong?” Louis asks him.

“Nothing's wrong. Why?” He doesn't take his eyes off the booklet.

“You're frowning.”

“I'm not frowning. I'm just focused on reading.”

“And did you read anything interesting?”

“Yes, actually. There's supposed to be a lost settlement around here, and some medieval ruins. I don't know. The photos look fascinating.”

Harry hands him the guide but before Louis can take a proper look at it, Harry points to a bunch of grey, stoned houses perched on the side of the hill. “It could be that one, what do you think?”

Louis compares the pictures in the book with the spot Harry is pointing to. To Louis’ untrained eye, they match up, and it doesn't look too far. 

“Do you want to go take a look?” Louis asks.

“There could be ghosts, Lou. It's an abandoned village,” Harry says with false gravitas.

“Are you afraid to go?”

“Of course not.”

Zayn and Liam are lying on a blanket, sunbathing. Liam had insisted they all put sun cream on, and Zayn's nose is still whiter than normal because he had used too much of it. 

“Zayn,” Louis calls.

“He's asleep, I think. Go on, I don't want to see any ghosts today,” Liam dismisses them, not even bothering to open his eyes.

Louis and Harry set off and after a ten minute trek they're reaching the first remnants of the village. The road is stony and the once cobbled way is full of weeds. Some houses don't really look abandoned, and there are a few stray cats that start to follow them. 

“That's strange,” Louis comments, and he would never admit it but the place is quite eerie. It's not scary in the sunlight, but if it were cloudy or darker it would look downright creepy.

“Oh, there are signs to the medieval ruins!” Harry exclaims. They start to follow wooden signs with a stylised medieval castle painted on them. The path gets more and more uneven and inclined, until they are practically climbing, jumping from rock to rock, and Louis has to be very careful not to slip. 

They reach a tiny summit. There are two grey brick walls, with a V shaped hole dividing them. Beyond their ragged edges, the cliff plunges in a sheer drop.

“Ruins of an ancient fort,” Harry comments, and Louis has no idea how he’s not out of breath. The view is a lot better than that from the tarn; moors upon moors and fells extend as far the eye can see. A thin fog is forming upon the lowest heaths, and Louis has the urge to touch the cold stone wall of the fort.

“The guide said it's from the eleventh century. That's mind-boggling, isn't it?” Harry touches the wall too, his hand next to Louis'.

“Yeah.” Louis feels gross, sweaty and tired, but as he breathes in the brisk air of the fells his mind feels free. He hasn't felt like this in a while, and he has to admit he is really glad he agreed to join this little trip outdoors. 

“If you're Wordsworth, I could be Coleridge and spend the rest of my days in an opium-induced haze,” Louis muses.

“And why would you?” Harry removes his hand and takes a few steps behind. Louis turns around and follows Harry to the other side of the small plateau.

“I don't see you as a Coleridge. I see you more as a fictional character. Considering the setting, I say you would make a great Heathcliff.” 

They're now standing side by side, a few meters away from the edge of the cliff. Louis' body is taken by an unnerving sensation, as if there were a force drawing him towards the precipice. He wonders what it would feel like to fall down into the void, if he would feel anything at all as he hits the bottom. Louis shakes off that thought, aware that it only stems from his wicked curiosity. He would never jump, he reasons.

“Heathcliff? I'm not that cruel,” Louis objects, offended.

“He's not cruel. He's introverted, withdrawn into himself, pent up like this fort once must have been. Unconquerable.” Harry is staring at the landscape before them, and Louis doesn't think he'll ever get used to how intense his gaze turns sometimes.

“He's ruthless. Poor Catherine.” Louis tries to laugh it off, because it all seems too weighty.

“He's mysterious, and he defies being understood. You could only get to know him through fragments and glimpses.” Like you. Harry doesn't say it, but the implication is loud and clear, and it rings through Louis' skull like a burning arrow.

Louis remains silent.

Harry abruptly steps back towards the incline they arrived from. “Let's head back,” he says.

The descent is a lot more difficult, and Louis proceeds at a snail’s pace. Harry is leaving him behind.

“Heyyy,” Louis calls him, “Someone is wearing trainers here. I'm slipping every two steps.”

“You're right, sorry.” Harry waits for him and, without any notice, takes Louis' hand in his. “Put your feet exactly where I put mine. And don't fall.”

“Easier said than done,” Louis grits through his teeth. But he has to admit that it's a lot easier to climb down now that he has something to hold onto, something that steadies him.

When they reach the flatter grounds of the abandoned village, there's no reason why Louis should let go of Harry's hand. 

“You make me sound like an insensitive dick sometimes.” Louis points out, only half joking.

“Who said you aren't one?” Harry chuckles.

“Sod off, Mr. Perfect.” Louis kicks a stone that rolls down ahead of them. “One day when I deem it appropriate to show my hidden virtues, you'll have to take back all those mean things you've said about me.” 

Despite his playful façade, Louis finds himself in a labyrinth of self-questioning. Is he really too reserved? Did he send off mixed signals? He has never been not honest with Harry, yet why does he feel like he owes him apologies? He just doesn't like to talk about himself too much, what's wrong with that?

“Have you ever imagined what it would feel like to kill yourself?” Louis says, out of nowhere.

“No. Why, have you?” Harry's tone is alarmed and he squeezes Louis' hand.

“No, no I haven't.” If you don't count my earlier musings, Louis thinks. “It's just that I think my father might have attempted to kill himself.”

“When?” 

“When he had alcohol poisoning. He had drunk a whole bottle of vodka by himself, but I'd never seen him drink so much hard liquor, only beer. And around the house he only drank beer or wine. What if he actually wanted to go into a coma and die?” Louis is struggling, forcing each word out, but he feels like he’d explode if he stopped talking now. “I haven't said this to anyone. Maybe I should have?”

“I don't know Louis. He's doing better now, though. You don't have to worry.” Harry's grip on Louis' hand is tight. 

“You have no idea how much I wish I didn't worry. But I worry all the time, every single day. I worry about everything, and no matter how overwhelmed I feel, I can’t stop caring.” Louis can't stop talking now, like a dam has just broken. “I feel so stupid for caring about him so much, when it's clear he doesn't give a damn about me. He doesn't give a damn about any of us. So why do I still love him so much?” 

Harry stops in his tracks and lets go of Louis' hand. His arms wrap around Louis' back and Louis is stunned, but melts into the hug a second later. He tangles his arms around Harry's waist.

“Because you're a good person, Louis.” Harry's words get muffled against Louis' shoulder.

“I'm afraid I'll end up just like him,” Louis mumbles, and he can feel Harry shaking his head.

“No, Louis. You're nothing like him.” Harry says with force. 

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.” 

He can't explain why, but Louis believes him. He removes his arms from Harry's waist, breaking off the hug. Harry's hands slide away from his back, but cling to the sleeves of Louis' hoodie. They stand in front of each other, awkwardly. Harry still has on that serious, earnest, almost fiery gaze that makes Louis want to shrink to the size of a dust particle and get blown away. It makes him question everything, it makes him wonder what Harry sees when he looks at him like that. 

At last, Louis finds his voice again. “Liam and Zayn must be wondering where we are.” 

Harry is jolted out of his thoughts, and for a fleeting moment his eyes darken. He blinks, his eyes turning clear and sparkling with a smile. 

“Yes, let's go.” 

*

Contrary to Louis’ concern, Liam and Zayn weren't fretting about their absence. Louis and Harry find them still lying on the blankets, now both out cold. Liam's cheeks and nose are red with sunburn, despite his previous zealousness in applying sun cream. They're sprawled on their backs, next to one another, and if Louis didn't know any better, he’d almost admit that they look rather cute.

They don't look so cute when he and Harry start pushing them and hollering into their ears that it's time to wake up. 

The hike downhill is a lot less tiring, their bags lighter now.

When they reach Harry's car, Louis feels exhausted, spent and utterly useless, like a burnt match. 

Harry lets Liam drive and Zayn reveals the contents of his small backpack: his speciality brownies. They polish them off until the last crumble; even Liam takes a small bite and the car turns into a giggly playground. Louis can't believe he's friends with these three dorks, and at the same time his heart is swelling up so much he's worried it might tear his chest apart.

They become stuck in traffic as soon as they hit the motorway and it take ages to get back to Greater Manchester. When they approach the city, they all have the munchies. They decide to grab a kebab and eat it while sitting on the kerb. The last traces of weed are leaving Louis' system, but his tongue still feels heavy and funny in his mouth.

After their kebab detour, Harry takes Liam home first and then Zayn. Finally, Louis climbs into the passenger seat and does what he’s been wanting to do since they departed that morning: turning off Harry's infernal radio with its unbearable, godawful Brit-pop tunes. 

Harry isn't even mad; he looks somewhat endeared.

“I'm not going to feel my legs for a week,” Louis whines as they arrive in front of his house.

Harry turns off the engine and relaxes into his seat. He props his elbow on the door handle and lets his cheek rest on his open palm.

“But we had fun, didn't we?” There's a nervous edge to his words, like he's afraid Louis will say no.

“Yes, but you are a tyrant. Next time you organise something, I'll want to read a proper programme of what we'll have to go through and verbalise my conditions beforehand.”

“Sure you didn't want to be a solicitor instead of a writer?”

“Playwright, that's different. And no, I hate law.” 

Harry's showing no sign of wanting to leave, and Louis wonders if he has to invite him in for a cup of tea. They continue to chat for a while, until Harry lets out a long, wistful sigh.

“I don't want this day to end,” he says, voice low.

Louis is surprised. “Why not?”

“I just really, really liked how today went. And I'm sad it's ending.”

Harry's reluctance to leave is blatant but he starts the engine nevertheless. Or at least, he tries.

“What the hell?” 

Harry tries again, turning the key with more force, but the engine won't start. The dashboard lights up for a second and turns off again. Harry starts to fumble with buttons and sticks. “Louis, you didn't turn off the radio.”

“No, I did.”

“You didn't, you just muted the volume. And now my battery is dead!” Harry yells, although he doesn't sound too distressed.

“I can't believe it. I didn't do it on purpose!” Louis cries, panicked. He knows that the radio can’t actually be the sole cause of the drained battery, and that it must have been already dying, but he feels Harry’s blame anyway. “I'll call Aiden, he's a mechanic.” 

Harry doesn't look too distraught about his car. He waits patiently as Louis fishes for his phone. 

Louis dials Aiden's number and it rings for ages. When Aiden picks up, Louis' tone instantly gives away his disappointment.

“He's out of town,” Louis tells Harry, Aiden still waiting on the other end of the line. “He wants to know if you want him to be here first thing in the morning.”

Harry nods.

“Ok, sorted. He'll be here tomorrow morning at 8,” Louis announces as soon as the call ends, smiling, even though he feels kind of guilty. 

“Right, I guess I'll just leave my car here,” Harry says, resigned. “Are there still buses at this hour, or do I have to call a taxi?” 

“What? No,” Louis blurts out. “Let me put you up for the night.” 

“No, thanks. I –.” Harry is fumbling for words. “Really, I can –”

Louis interrupts him. “I won't take no for an answer. Let's get out of this car,” Louis says, while opening the passenger door.

Harry follows him and they step inside the extreme quiet of Louis' house.

“I can take the sofa,” Harry hurries to say as soon as he's past the doorway, eyeing the living room on his left.

Ruby appears at the top of the stairs. She's wearing her pink dressing gown and a disgruntled expression.

“Louis.” Her voice is sleepy and Louis is sure they must have woken her up.

“Hi, I'm Harry,” Harry chimes in, offering Ruby his hand when she's reached the lowest step.

“Is Ian home?” Louis asks his sister.

“No one's home. Ian's sleeping at Charlie's. As usual, I'm holding the fort,” she mumbles. 

Louis has definitely had enough of fort metaphors for that day.

“Ok. Harry is sleeping over,” Louis informs her. 

She shrugs and starts to make her way back upstairs with heavy steps, calling a 'goodnight' as she goes. 

Louis manages to convince Harry to shower first, insisting that it's really not a problem and that Harry shouldn't feel like he's imposing. While Harry is in the bathroom, Louis changes the sheets on Ian's bed. Since his father's been home regularly following his hospital stay, Ian had gone back to sleeping in one of the two twin beds in Louis' room. Well, his and Ian's room originally. 

When Harry walks into Louis' room clad in a pair of Louis' sweats that look too short on him, an old t-shirt and a towel wrapped on top of his head like a turban, Louis can't help but start giggling.

“Hey, what's making you laugh so much?” Harry is squirming and he looks a second away from flipping Louis off.

“Sorry. You just look so stupid with that thing on your head.”

Harry flips him off.

“Piss off, you don't know what it's like to have long hair,” he huffs, sitting down on Ian's bed.

“Do you need a hair dryer?” Louis asks.

“Nah, I'll just use the towel.”

Louis takes a long shower, enjoying the way the jets of hot water soothe his sore muscles. He hasn't felt this physically exhausted in a long time. Usually, it's his racing mind that wears him out, keeping him awake until he passes out with mental exhaustion. Tonight though, he knows he will fall asleep the very second his body hits the bed.

Louis tiptoes back into his room. Harry is lying on his side, but Louis can't see his face. It looks like he's already asleep, so Louis gets under his covers and switches off the light.

“Goodnight, Lou,” Harry whispers, voice heavy with sleep.

Louis' reply is soft and breathy, “Goodnight.” Louis falls asleep soon after.

*

Louis doesn't register the exact moment he wakes up. He becomes aware that he's lying in his bed awake, even though he feels like he could do with a few more hours of sleep. He's about to turn over onto his other side and try to doze off again when he hears a ragged intake of breath followed by a long exhale. Louis freezes and his ears perk up. He's holding his breath and he hears Harry sigh again.

“Harry?” 

Harry hums. Or maybe it was a groan? Louis can't tell for sure.

“Are you okay?” Louis' body is moving of its own accord, and before he can process his own movements, he has slid out of his bed and is standing on the carpet, barefoot, in the space between his and Ian's bed. Harry's shivering.

“Lou, sorry if I woke you. I had a nightmare.” Harry's curled up in a fetal position, facing away from Louis. 

Louis' body is still possessed by a part of his mind he doesn't recognise as he takes a step towards Ian's bed and puts a tentative hand on Harry's shoulder.

“Can I – ” Louis starts, but he doesn't know what he was going to say.

“Yes, please.” Harry cuts him off and crawls towards the far edge of the bed, making room for Louis.

Louis climbs into bed with Harry and lies on his left side. The bed is narrow and there's only a handful of inches separating his body from Harry's. Louis can feel the warmth radiating off Harry's back, he can smell the sweet scent of Harry's curls, hear each of his shallow breathes. Harry wriggles his body backwards, until his back is pressed to Louis' chest and Louis has his nose buried in Harry's soft hair. 

Louis' arm twitches, but he keeps it in place where it's resting on his right hip. But then Harry's hand grabs his wrist and manoeuvres his arm, folding it until Louis' palm is resting against Harry's ribcage. Harry's heart is beating impossibly fast, fluttering underneath the flat of Louis' hand. Harry sniffles.

“You must really think I'm a child now.” Harry's voice is barely loud enough to be heard. “A child who had a nightmare and wants to go sleep in his parents’ bed.” He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry.”

“Ssh, no,” Louis shushes him. “There's nothing embarrassing about having a nightmare. I used to do this all the time when my brother was little. He'd wake up in the middle of the night. He'd cry and cry, but he knew my parents wouldn't let him into their bed, so I would climb into his bed and scoop him up. I'd listen to him and cuddle him until he'd fall back to sleep. It happened especially when my mum –” Louis' words are stuck, but he forces himself to go on. “Up until three years ago. I can't believe he's already thirteen. He's all grown up now, he doesn't need his big brother anymore.”

“No, I'm sure he still needs you.” Harry's hand clasps around Louis' wrist, giving it a squeeze.

Louis smiles, even though Harry can't see him. “So, do you want to tell me your bad dream, or would you rather not talk about it?” 

“Yes. We, erm.” Harry sniffles and starts again. “I was supposed to babysit Tim, so I took him for a walk - he could walk. And then I lost him, I couldn't find him anywhere. So I was forced to tell Rebecca and Greg that their son was missing, and we went back to where I'd lost him and we started looking for him. It was night, and we were wandering around in complete darkness, calling his name. It doesn't sound so scary now, only stupid. But the worst part was the tightness in my chest at the thought of having lost him.” Harry is silent for a moment. “There's still something like a vice smashing my heart if I think about it, it won't go away even though I know it was only a dream. Could you imagine? If something happened to Tim, Greg and Rebecca would be wrecked with grief. Niall would never meet his nephew.” 

Harry's voice breaks and Louis thinks he's forcing himself to keep his tears silent.

“Sorry, I'm pretty pathetic,” Harry adds as an afterthought.

"I swear, if you say sorry again I'll make you sleep on the street, and this is a general rule. No more saying you're sorry around me, ever. And you're not pathetic.” Louis hears Harry hum weakly. “Listen, I'm no Freud, but I'm pretty sure your nightmare was actually about Niall. You still have no idea where he is?”

Louis' words have Harry's body shuddering and Louis mentally curses himself. He tightens his grip around Harry's waist. 

"No." Harry's reply is feeble.

"I'm sure he’s alright, Harry. He’s tough,” Louis reassures him. He wants nothing more than to comfort him and assure him that everything is going to be alright, but he isn't sure how to bestow all his confidence on his words.

"Is he?” Harry whispers, as if he’s afraid of breaking something if he speaks any louder. “You should've seen him before he left. It was all my fault. I shouldn't have been so gullible, I shouldn't have been so sure we were going to be signed. I shouldn't have let him raise his expectations so high. Not only did I deceive myself, but I also convinced Niall of my delusions. How could have I been so stupid?”

"You weren't stupid. I mean, you loved that guy, right?”

"I thought I did.” Harry's voice is strained, as if the words taste bitter on his tongue.

"So you were a bit stupid, yeah,” Louis concedes, “but it's not your fault Niall left. It was his decision. You have to stop blaming yourself, ok?” Louis hopes with all his heart that his words are helping Harry to feel a bit better.

Harry falls silent. He still feels fragile, breakable, vulnerable under Louis' touch. Beneath Louis' palm, Harry's heartbeat slowly evens out, and Louis thinks he might be nodding off again. 

But instead Harry is suddenly turning around in his arms, until they're facing each other. His head is resting only a few inches from Louis', and since Louis’ curtains are uselessly thin, the greyish moonlight is pouring in through the window and Louis can see Harry's wide, glimmering eyes. There are still tears trapped in his eyelashes, and a few drops on his cheeks. Harry is worrying his bottom lip, his eyes boring into Louis'. 

And Louis kisses him, as if it’s the most natural decision in the world, as if they had already kissed a million and one times before. Harry's lips put up no resistance, seamlessly following Louis' unhurried movements, like kissing each other was an untaught skill, something that was bound to fall into place sooner or later. It doesn't feel like fireworks, but rather like the leisurely pace at which the sun rises above the horizon on a lazy summer morning. It's undemanding, unrushed, gentle. Something Louis isn't used to and something that would terrify him out of his mind if he didn't already feel out of his mind for different reasons.

Louis' last drop of sanity is erased when a small whimper escapes Harry's mouth and his body goes completely pliant, surrendering to Louis' touch. Louis' hands roam Harry's back, tangle in his curls, wipe away the last remnants of tears from his cheeks and from his jaw. Harry's lips are soft and his tongue leaves burning marks in Louis' mouth, traces that won't be easily removed afterwards. 

They're both breathless, their limbs intertwined under the sheets. Louis' skin is on fire and his accelerated heart makes blood thud loudly through his ears. Before anything happens though, before the barely there stroke of Harry's fingertips on the skin under the hem of Louis' shirt turns into something more frantic, before Louis gives in to the urge to crush Harry's body with his, the urge to be on top of him, before either of them do anything they could regret in the morning, Louis unlatches his mouth from Harry's and cradles Harry's nape in his hands. Louis guides Harry's face below his, rests his chin against Harry's forehead, shuts his eyes and forces himself to calm down. Harry lets out a long breath and buries his face into Louis' chest. 

Sleep wins them over eventually, and when they wake up in the morning, still in each other's arms, neither of them says anything about what occurred only a few hours before.

*

As the soles of his trainers rhythmically hit the tarmac with flat thuds, Louis can't stop wondering what the hell has got into him. He's out of breath, lungs burning and screaming for pity, muscles still sore from the hike. 

In what fucked up parallel universe has he been catapulted into where he’s the one asking Liam to go for a run? He had found himself at eight in the morning in Liam's kitchen, wearing shorts and a tank top, eating the granola Liam's mum had made them for breakfast. Just, what the fuck.

Louis had thought he’d been doing ok, that what had happened with Harry two nights ago had just been a little glitch in his brain. He'd blamed it on having spent too much time with Harry within a 24-hour period. He'd blamed it on the fact that both had been vulnerable and tired, and Louis' brain had shut off when he’d got into bed. Mostly, he'd blamed it on the fact that they're ultimately only human, and that is why they had ended up kissing. Who wouldn't kiss a person you find yourself in bed with, _cuddling_ with. 

The thought that they had cuddled makes Louis cringe. But the kiss? It had been a very nice kiss, Louis has to admit; Harry’s a good kisser. But that was it, and he was glad nothing else happened. It would've been awkward, right?

It had been awkward anyway. Louis had sneaked out of bed first, got dressed in a pair of faded black jeans and an old maroon Vans hoodie, and had gone downstairs to make tea. When Harry had appeared at the bottom of the stairs dressed in his jeans and smelly t-shirt from the day before, bedhead and everything, Louis' mouth hadn't gone dry. He had not been attacked with images from the night before. Louis' only thought was that what had occurred had been downright absurd. 

Harry had sat next to him after a mumbled, “Morning”, taken hold of the mug Louis had laid on the table with an Earl Grey teabag ready, and poured steamy water into it. He'd nibbled at the toast Louis had made for himself but hadn't touched. During all of this, Louis had sat there, still feeling Harry's hands on the small of his back from the night before, like the kiss had only just ended. 

Neither of them had acknowledged it, both thoroughly ignoring the giant elephant in the room. Harry had seemed perfectly fine, if only a bit tired and not too chatty. Which, in hindsight, is not like Harry at all. Harry is seldom silent or broody, but at the time Louis hadn't thought much of it, only glad that Harry wasn't going to bring it up.

But now, as morning air hits his damp sweaty skin and he struggles to keep up with Liam's brisk pace, Louis can't pry his mind from thoughts of the kiss and that's bothering him to no end. It had literally meant nothing.

“Why are you so quiet this morning?” Liam asks.

“I'm trying not to die here, Payno,” Louis pants. He's cranky and there's a faint taste of blood at the back of his throat and he really, really doesn't want to throw his breakfast back up.

“Ok, let's slow down a bit.” 

They've been making laps in the park for a good thirty minutes, the place almost deserted except for the occasional fellow early morning runner. Louis feels even worse once they slow down to a tranquil jog, his legs screaming for pity.

“I need to rest for a minute,” Louis says, breathless.

“Can I keep going?” 

Liam's not even sweating, the fit bastard.

“Yes, I'll be here.” 

Louis stops running at once and slowly walks towards a bench. He sits down heavily. His pulse is out of control, he's sweaty and his face is on fire. He feels flushed and gross but the physical exertion isn't helping him clear his head. 

The gravity of what happened hits Louis like a punch in the guts. Sudden, unexpected, like being thrown under a cold shower without any warning whatsoever. 

He’d snogged Harry Styles. And he’d been the one to initiate it.

Fuck. 

*

That night, The Jockey is packed. Rowdy football fans are fixated on the telly, engrossed in the match, raucous bellows erupting as often as Louis blinks. Louis doubts even a fire would cause them to flinch and lose concentration. They're mingled with other regular, less noisy, punters, who just want to enjoy their pint without anyone pelting beer mats or peanuts at them. It's almost like every single person in Chatsworth had decided to frequent the pub this Wednesday night. 

Louis is working his arse off. He pulls pint after pint, mixes drinks at the speed of lightning. People crowd the bar and everyone is shouting their orders all at once. Louis' feet feel dead and he genuinely doesn't know if they'll ever feel normal again. 

He sees Liam first and when Louis is handing him his pint Liam yells something in his ear.

“I'm in, fuck. I'm in!” Liam's tugging the front of Louis' shirt, smiling wide.

Louis smiles back and yells, “Congratulations!” that he's not sure Liam hears.

“I haven't told the others yet,” Liam adds, tone serious.

Louis doesn't have time to ask him why; Greg is shouting for him at the other end of the bar. 

Although tiring as hell, nights like this pass by rather quickly. Before Louis realises it, it's eleven and the throng of people is finally thinning out. He sees Liam, Zayn, and Harry at a table in a corner. They’re all laughing at something Liam is saying. Harry's cackling is louder than anyone else's and he's throwing his head back.

Louis goes to collect the empty glasses at their table.

Everyone's head whips in his direction. Zayn's eyes are full of mirth and he's sprawled on his seat with a smug smile, Harry's sitting upright, one hand on his glass playing with the condensation. Liam bows his head down when he meets Louis' eyes.

“What's so funny?” Louis asks, gaze darting between Zayn and Harry.

“We were talking about the time Liam bought his cat to footie practice,” Zayn announces, barely keeping another bout of laughter at bay.

Louis sees Liam hide his face in a napkin.

“You don't remember, Lou? It’d hidden in his duffel bag. Liam found out once he got to the changing room,” Zayn piles on. “He was so embarrassed. He had to go home to take his cat back and didn't show up for three practices in a row after that.”

Liam looks like he wants to protest and Harry is laughing again so much his face is red and he's beating his fist on his knee. 

Louis remembers Zayn endlessly teasing Liam about it, but not in a pretty way. Now though, Zayn's genuinely amused, not snide. But there's still an odd sort of tension between the two of them, something that Louis has yet to figure out. 

“It was so hilarious,” Harry manages in between cackles, “He kept telling the cat he could've warned him. You were so off kilter in secondary, Liam, a proper weirdo.”

“Well, thank you very much, Harry. At least I wasn't shit at footie, you scored more own goals than anyone else in the team.”

“You were goalkeeper, Liam,” Zayn deadpans.

The whole table bursts out laughing again. Liam's frowning, whole face beet red. 

Louis makes his way back behind the bar, a tray balanced in his hands. His friends' banter goes on without him, he can hear their voices bellowing as he serves the last clients of the night. He observes his friends from the corner of his eye. What would Zayn and Liam think if they knew what had happened? Louis would be embarrassed to death.

When the bar’s emptied and Louis has cleaned all the other tables, Louis joins them again with a pint for himself. Zayn is finishing his and still has a shot of whiskey lined up, Liam is back to drinking Coke Zero and Harry is still nursing his half pint of sweet cider. 

“You lot are waiting for me?” Louis asks as he sits down. 

His knee involuntarily bumps with Harry's under the table and Louis retreats it as if he got burned. Not a totally wrong comparison, considering Louis feels the unintentional touch throughout his leg, like Harry's knee had given his a tiny electric discharge. Louis' body is a bloody Judas for responding so wrongly to Harry's physical proximity.

“I don't know man, I'm knackered,” Zayn says, extracting a tobacco bag from his leather jacket.

“I need my eight hours of sleep,” Liam brags. He must really pride himself on his sleeping schedule.

Louis snorts. “You are the most boring friends ever sometimes.”

“I can wait for you, Lou,” Harry throws in.

“Don't you have to take Liam home?” Louis asks.

“Nope, he drove here by himself.”

“Yes, in case Harry wanted to stay out past my bedtime,” Liam confirms as he drinks the last of his Coke.

“You sound like you're eighty,” Zayn says, and Liam glares at him.

Louis wants to butt into the conversation but his voice catches when, beneath the table, Harry's boot bumps into his Vans. And, what the fuck is going on? Harry isn't paying attention to him, so it might've been an accident. But, regardless, what the hell has got into Louis? Something sits heavy in his stomach, but it's not a bad sensation, more like a frustrating one. It's thwarting that he can't figure out what's going on and that he doesn't feel like he has full control of the situation. 

Zayn and Liam start talking about the latest Avengers movie, and even though Louis hears them, he's not really listening. Harry's fiddling with his phone, a furrow between his brows in what Louis has now learned is concentration rather than concern. One of Harry's arms is draped behind the back of the chair and he's sitting with his legs spread wide. He looks at ease, relaxed and wrapped up in whatever is holding his attention.

“Hey,” Louis tells him.

Harry peels his eyes off his phone and looks up at Louis. “Hey,” he replies.

“Everything alright?” Louis hasn't really spoken to Harry since that morning when they were waiting for Aiden's arrival. Aiden had jump-started Harry's car and then had Harry follow him to his dad's shop to get him a new battery.

“Yes, my car is as good as new. It won't bail on us again.” Harry pockets his phone. “What about you? Still sore from our hike?”

Louis' staring at Harry's mouth as he talks. He becomes aware of this only when the silence has stretched slightly too long, and realises he has yet to give an answer.

“Yep. I am, actually. My leg muscles ache and my feet are killing me.” He doesn't mention the fact that he even went for a run that morning. Louis must've been crazy, proper mental.

Harry's absent-mindedly rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans, as if he’s trying to determine whether his own thighs are sore. Louis catches himself staring again. 

In the end, Zayn and Liam leave at the same time. Before he's out the door, Zayn flashes Louis a strange look as Harry gets up from his seat to help Louis clean up their table. Louis just waves him off and dutifully proceeds to sweep the pub floor. 

Harry helps Louis close the pub and Louis can't stop thinking about how wrong everything feels. How wrong it is that Harry is so kind to him and how wrong it is that Harry seems to enjoy being in Louis' company and telling him stupid jokes. How Harry's face lights up when Louis recounts something silly his sisters had done, or how a client had wanted him to make them a Bloody Mary without tomato juice. Harry listens raptly and giggles at every stupid thing Louis says. 

Louis thinks it's all wrong, and it's absurd that a meaningless snog with a friend is taunting his mind so much. He's not used to it. He's not used to any of this. He's used to being sure of what he wants and going for it. He's used to hook ups with no feelings attached, namely with Nick during the past year. But it doesn't entirely feel like that with Harry, and Louis has to find a way to stop his brain from short-circuiting.

He and Harry are friends. He and Harry, up until only a few months ago, couldn't even stand each other. They didn't like each other and Louis thought Harry was an attention-seeking twat. With his quirky boots, with his love for the type of music that bores Louis to death, with his superior attitude and the pretense of being a tormented singer songwriter who goes everywhere with a notebook scribbling down lyrics or poems or whatever it is Harry writes. With his outrageously long hair, his ridiculous bun and his awful taste in literature. 

Harry waits for Louis while he switches off the lights. They walk out together and Louis locks the front door. Louis thanks Harry but he's unable to look him in the eye. Harry hesitates for a moment, lingering in front of Louis as they stand outside The Jockey, before heading for his car with a stilted, “Goodnight”.

Louis is confused, but he tries not to think about it as he watches Harry leave in his Peugeot.

He checks his phone and sees he has an unread text from Nick asking him to meet up for lunch. Louis doesn't feel like seeing him. What happened in the club has left him with an odd kind of feeling that he can't quite put his finger on. He texts him an excuse, promising to make up for it another day. He doesn't know if he will.

*

The following day, it’s like hell breaks loose in Louis' mind. 

He can't stop thinking about the kiss and it's becoming a kind of obsession Louis has to find a way to get rid of. He's found himself thinking about it at work, while he has lunch with Prue and Julian, while Ruby complains to him about the boy in Year 10 she has a crush on but who doesn't even know she exists. Louis hadn't even bothered to shit-talk the guy as he normally would have, because all he could think about was Harry's stupid lips and his stupid hands on his back and the weight of Harry's body next to his. How fucked up is that?

Harry is acting like nothing has happened, like nothing has changed, like the universe hasn't been caving in on itself since Tuesday morning. And this is simultaneously comforting and extremely enraging for Louis.

*

Saturday night Zayn and Liam bail on them again and Harry keeps Louis company while he closes the pub.

Louis' now made up his mind and come up with the perfect plan to suppress at the root his obsession with The Kiss. Yes, it is now capitalised in Louis' head because it is his number one enemy.

When he has swept and mopped the floor and everything is, more or less, in its place, Louis switches off half the lights so that only the feeble lights above the bar are on. 

Harry's been talking his head off about the upcoming Stone Roses gig, whining about how expensive the tickets are and that no one wants to go with him. Louis can't wrap his head around the fact that Stone Roses are all wrinkly yet they still tour the same albums that came out more than twenty years ago. Fucking unbelievable.

“Do you want to do shots?” Louis cuts Harry off. 

Harry looks a bit put-off that Louis has interrupted his monologue. “I have to drive home,” he replies, but it’s not a no.

“C'mon, don't be a downer Harry. Zayn and Liam deserted us and I'm not tired yet. I wanna do shots.” Louis' huffing, petulant. He can already see Harry's resolve crumbling down in the way Harry's eyes brighten when Louis puts on a fake pout.

Louis really wants to do shots and get a bit drunk. Only a little though, just enough so that the feeling in his gut telling him he wants to get in Harry's pants can be entirely blamed on the alcohol in his system. 

Louis pushes that thought to the back of his mind. He grabs a bottle of tequila from the shelf and goes to sit at a table to the side of the bar with two shot glasses, a few slices of lime and a tiny saucer filled with salt. He pours two tequila shots for him and Harry, who's taken the chair next to him. 

“Alright, Styles.” Louis slides one of the glasses in front of Harry.

“Styles?” Harry repeats, frowning, sprinkling a pinch of salt on the back of his hand.

Louis smirks, “Yes, you don't like it.” He doesn't wait for a reply before clinking his glass with Harry's and downing the shot in a gulp.

It burns in Louis' mouth and goes straight to his legs. He feels them wobbly and Louis wonders when he became such a lightweight. Harry's mouthing at the lime, seemingly unhindered. Even though the temperature in the empty pub is the same as five minutes ago, Louis feels ten times hotter and decides to take off his jumper. If Harry's lingering gaze is anything to go by, his shirt is now probably all rucked up on his tummy and Louis hurries to pull it down again. 

Harry tears his eyes away and coughs once. “I wanted to ask you something,” he starts, looking at a point approximately near Louis' right shoulder. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he adds, shifting his gaze to Louis' face and batting his eyelashes. Louis doesn't know it it's an involuntary movement or not, but it makes him squirm in his seat.

“Let's hear it,” Louis shrugs, even as his brain is whirling with possible things Harry might ask him that he does _not_ want to hear.

“When we played that game –” Harry trails off and makes a vague hand gesture, “Never have I ever.” 

Louis just hums to egg him on.

“You said you'd been with someone older, too,” Harry continues, offhanded.

“Yes, I remember. What about it?” Louis prompts, because Harry isn't making any sense yet.

“Just wanted to know how that happened,” Harry says, avoiding looking in Louis' general direction.

“Oh, well. It’s not like I had a proper relationship with an older man, or anything. Nothing like that.” Louis prattles, “I met this guy Nick here, more than a year ago now. He was in Chatsworth for business. He started flirting with me, I liked him, we fucked. The end.”

Well, Louis knows that's not entirely true. He made it sound like a one night stand, but truth is he and Nick became friends along the way, even more than just fuck buddies.

“Nick?” Harry's forehead wrinkles and it looks like he's trying hard to remember something.

“Yes, d'you know him?” Louis asks, confused.

“No, I mean. Zayn told me –” Harry falters, embarrassed. “When we went clubbing and you got off with that guy, Zayn told me his name was Nick.” Harry's entire face has gone pink. “I didn't know you two have history. I thought you'd just met him.” 

Harry's blushing and tense and he looks like he could really do with another shot.

“It's not like we have history, Harry. We shag sometimes, that's it. I don't have history with anyone, you know. We're mates and we fuck sometimes.” 

Louis doesn't understand why Harry is asking all of these questions. Harry doesn't answer, he only peers down at his empty glass. His leg is pressed into Louis' and it's oozing warmth. Harry huffs and takes off his hoodie, revealing a tattered Rolling Stones shirt.

“Did you get attacked by a werewolf or something?” Louis teases.

“No, this is my favourite shirt.” Harry stretches the fabric out. There are several holes on the left side, a long gash near the right sleeve. “I don't care if it has holes in it, I'm gonna wear this until it's so frayed it falls apart.”

Louis wants to poke his fingers into the tears and rip that stupid shirt off of Harry's body, partly out of spite, partly because he wouldn't mind seeing Harry shirtless. Now, _that_ is definitely something he should not be thinking about. He hates the god-awful shirt.

Louis decides they need another shot. He says as much.

“Ok, only one more. I gotta drive later,” Harry concedes.

Louis quickly pours tequila into the two shot glasses. His eyes lock with Harry's as he licks the salt off the back of his hand. They down the shot in sync, alcohol burning in Louis' throat. But instead of putting the slice of lime in his mouth to soothe it, Louis grabs the back of Harry's head and kisses him. 

Harry opens his mouth and lets Louis' tongue dart in, but he stays still. It's Louis kissing him and Harry tastes like tequila and something sweeter, fruitier. Louis is about to pull away when Harry starts kissing him back. Harry's fingers card through the strands of hair on Louis' nape and he pulls Louis closer, urgently, hastily, like he resents Louis almost breaking the kiss. It's frantic, sloppy, their mouths are slick with saliva and they both taste like alcohol and in Louis' mind there's a voice repeating one single thing on a loop. This all feels so wrong. 

When he and Harry had kissed in Louis' bedroom, it had been the opposite of this. It had been slow and gentle, and soft. Yet it hadn't felt right either, because Louis doesn't do slow or gentle or soft. He does it like _this_ , he does quick and unemotional and meaningless. But the difference between what is happening right now and what he has experienced with every other person he has hooked up with, is that now, for the first time, he doesn’t feel in control. Right now, as his jeans grow tight and Harry's tongue slips in and out of his mouth, Louis fees the hold on the metaphorical reins slipping out of his hands.

One of Louis' hands is cupping Harry's knee. Louis moves his hand further up, caressing Harry's thigh until it's is resting on Harry's groin. Louis' breath hitches. Harry is so hard it must be painful. He whines when Louis removes his hand, and Louis has to do something to make sure he regains control of the situation. He detaches his mouth from Harry's, fingertips splayed on his jaw.

“Stand up,” Louis hisses. He hadn't meant to sound so assertive. 

Harry goes pink. His whole face is a mess, his lips are shiny, eyes dark and glazed. He scrambles to his feet so quickly he almost sends his chair tumbling down.

“What?” Harry makes to step away as if Louis had asked him to leave. But Louis spreads his legs and grabs Harry's hips, drawing him closer, until Louis' face is level with the bulge in Harry's jeans.

Harry's body is frozen still as Louis starts to stroke him through the fabric of his trousers. Louis unbuttons Harry's jeans and undoes the zip. Harry's breath catches.

“You want this, right?” Louis checks, because Harry's silence is making him nervous.

“Yes, yes,” Harry blurts. 

Louis glances up. Harry's biting his bottom lip.

“Ok,” Louis breathes.

He lowers Harry's jeans to his knees and cups Harry's dick through his pants. Louis' other hand explores the smooth skin of Harry's inner thighs and Harry squirms. 

“Sorry, it tickles,” Harry gasps. One of Harry's hands comes to rest on top of Louis' head, but it's just there. Harry doesn't push Louis' head, or tug on Louis' hair.

“Don't fucking 'sorry' me while I'm about to blow you,” Louis says and starts kissing just below the hem of Harry's underwear, where his skin is soft and covered in light sparse hair.

“Ok, sorry,” Harry says on purpose.

Louis sinks his teeth into the supple flesh of Harry's thigh and Harry lets out a strangled groan. Louis notices something then.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Louis' cock would twitch if there were any room left in his jeans.

“What?” Harry fumbles.

“You have a tattoo on your inner thigh.” 

It looks like a phrase or something, but Louis can't decipher it. He hooks his fingers in the waist of Harry's pants.

“Louis, please,” Harry croaks, voice ragged. He's leaking, there's a darker patch on his pants and Louis flicks his tongue above that spot before he pulls them down. 

The sight makes Louis' mouth water, and he wants this, he really wants this. Sucking Harry's absurdly pretty cock is going to make him stop obsessing over that stupid kiss. 

Louis grabs Harry's dick and licks at the tip. It tastes so fucking good Louis might start to cry, but Harry already looks impatient judging by how he's leaning his hips forward.

Louis slides his hands over Harry's bum. “Stay still,” he demands, squeezing Harry's arse. Harry complies, doing his best to remain still while Louis takes him in his mouth as far as he can. Harry moans and his hips tremble. Louis lets go of his arse and splays his hands under Harry's t-shirt, the skin of Harry's abdomen silk-like soft under Louis' palms. 

He takes Harry's cock as far as he can before he's choking on it, trying to keep his gag reflex at bay. Harry is moaning and mumbling profanities above him. It's clearly increasingly difficult for him to keep still and quiet. 

Louis wants to hear him curse. He pulls away and starts to wank Harry off, his cock nice and wet from Louis' mouth. “Do you like it?”

“Fuck, yes.” Harry isn't making much sense, but Louis wants to hear him come.

Louis dives in again, trying to fit all of Harry's length into his mouth, pressing his tongue against the underside of his cock. Harry is breathing hard but he remains silent. Louis does his best to suck him harder, faster. There's dribble sliding from the corners of his mouth down his chin, but he couldn't care less. His grip on Harry's hips intensifies, his fingertips digging into Harry's flesh and Harry's love-handles feel like something else under Louis' palms. Louis is so focused on making Harry come that he has forgotten all about his poor cock still trapped in his jeans. 

Harry goes from being stock-still and relatively quiet to blabbering and moving all at once. “Yes, fucking shit. Louis, I'm gonna come!”

Louis hums encouragingly around Harry's cock until Harry goes still. Louis feels him throb and spurt come into his mouth, Harry panting obscenely. Louis swallows and pulls away, taking Harry's cock in his hand. He licks the last drops of come leaking from the tip. When he's sure Harry's orgasm is over he neatly tucks his cock back into his underwear and ventures a glance towards Harry's face. 

Harry is gaping and his hips sway as if he’s finding it hard to stand on his own two feet. His face scrunches up and he sneezes so loudly and so unexpectedly Louis nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Oi!” Louis shouts and he can't help it. He starts laughing heartily while Harry plonks down on a chair looking like he’s just run a marathon.

“Oh, my God, that's so embarrassing.” Harry buries his face in his palms. Louis can see he's blushing.

“No, it was hilarious.” Louis can't believe he just went down on such a dork. This thought makes his breath hitch. The awareness he's just sucked Harry's cock is doing strange things to his head and he wants to strangle the voice yelling at him how much he liked it. He liked making Harry come so much he almost feels sated from it alone, having almost forgotten about his own erection.

Harry is shaking his head, face still hidden. Louis' isn't at all endeared by the view.

“It happens sometimes. I start sneezing after and it's fucking embarrassing. I'm the worst,” Harry sighs.

“You can make up for it by returning the favour.” Louis has apparently turned into a brazen arsehole all of a sudden. _What_ is wrong with him? He's not usually like this. “If you want to,” he hurries to add.

Harry goes pink, again. He sidles up to Louis and puts a hand on his leg. He leans closer, tentative, his face hovering over Louis'.

“You don't have to kiss me if you're grossed out,” Louis mumbles, because he's uncertain now. What if Harry doesn't like to kiss a person that has just given him head? That's something he should've taken into account. What if Harry _doesn't_ want to return the favour? Oh God, he should've thought out this whole plan better.

“What? Why would I be grossed out?” Harry's puzzled, but his face remains where it is, his nose nudging Louis'.

Louis is slightly relieved. “I just drank your spunk,” he points out, as blunt as can be.

Harry shakes his head and chuckles, clasping Louis' neck and touching his mouth to Louis'. Louis' entire mind is momentarily unable to focus on anything but Harry kissing him, so much so that he's taken by surprise when Harry's hand lands on his dick, squeezing it through his jeans. The moment of uncertainty is gone and Louis moans into Harry's mouth. He undoes his flies, letting out a long sigh when he doesn't feel constricted anymore, although he isn't as hard as he was before.

Harry tugs Louis' pants down and starts to wank him off. Harry's hand is dry and without warning he's ducking his head down. He starts to lick at the head of Louis' cock and Louis' hand moves on instinct to pat Harry's hair. But in a matter of seconds Harry's mouth latches onto Louis' lips again. Louis' shirt keeps getting in the way so Louis rucks it up exposing his tummy.

Harry jerks Louis off and it feels ten times better now that Louis' dick is smeared with precome and Harry's spit. Louis is gasping, Harry not letting him breathe between each assault to his mouth and Louis feels himself quickly edging towards his orgasm. Perhaps he should be embarrassed by how soon he's coming into Harry's fist, but he can't feel anything other than electric sparks rushing through his whole body, and Harry, who doesn't stop kissing him and biting his lower lip.

Louis is reduced to a panting mess for a good minute. He keeps his eyes shut and breathes hard through his nose and mouth. He hears Harry's chair scraping and his steps resonating in the empty pub. Louis opens his eyes and sees Harry toddling out of the toilet with some bog roll. Louis gratefully takes it and wipes the come off his stomach. His own skin is damp and feverish to the touch. 

He looks up at Harry and Harry is already staring at him. Louis stares back, trying to decipher what Harry is thinking, what's going on behind his dark jade eyes. The longer neither of them speaks the more Louis feels himself teetering on the brink of discomfort. 

Louis stands up, because he didn't like the view of Harry looming over him. They start talking at the same time, their words jumbled together. They both stop in their tracks, embarrassed. 

“Go on,” Louis says.

The room is dark and there are shadows playing on Harry's features. Louis wants to map them out with his fingertips. 

“This was nice,” Harry says, his voice a whisper. “Did you – erm,” he pauses, his eyes roaming Louis' face. “Did you like it?” 

“Yeah, yes, I liked it.” Why is Louis whispering too? He clears his throat and says, louder, “Not bad Styles,” with a smirk.

“Why are you calling me that again?” Harry replies with fake exasperation. “Are you drunk?”

“What? No.” Louis shudders. “Just a bit tipsy.” His chest tightens. “You think I did this just because I'm drunk? You think I'm a slag, don't you.”

“What?” Harry looks affronted, but his defensiveness is giving him away. “I don't think you're a slag, Louis. Fuck.” 

Louis doesn't want to start a fight. “Ok, calm your tits. Just for the record, I'm not drunk.” 

He wants to make sure Harry knows that this hasn't happened because Louis had drunk. In fact, he doesn't even feel tipsy. He doesn't want Harry to think he's a slag, he still wants to be friends with him after this. The thought is still kind of foreign to him, this desire to be Harry's friend would've been unthinkable once. But he remembers what it was like to constantly bicker with him and he doesn't want to go back there.

“Ok.” Harry's expression softens. “Fuck, I hope Greg and Rebecca didn't hear any of that.” He smiles sheepishly, all sparkling eyes and pink cheeks.

“You certainly woke little Tim with your monstrous sneeze,” Louis says.

“My sneezes are always obnoxious, Louis. Have you seen the size of my nose?” Harry is pointing at his face and he goes cross-eyed for a second.

“Not the only big thing on you,” Louis replies, putting on his jumper, just so he has something do with his hands.

“Louis!” Harry blushes again and Louis thinks he rather likes being the cause of Harry's red cheeks.

“I was talking about your mouth and your big ego, you twat,” Louis clarifies.

Harry is beaming and there's a grin threatening to split Louis' face in two. He tries to rein it in.

“Do you want some tea?” Louis asks.

Harry agrees and Louis retreats into the kitchen. He puts the kettle on and goes back to the bar. Harry is sitting on a stool.

“It must've hurt like hell,” Louis says.

“What?” Harry's fiddling with his phone.

“Your tattoo.”

Harry pockets his phone and starts to drum his fingers on the wooden counter, head cocked to one side.

“Oh. Yes, but I didn't mind.” He falters, “I had a raging boner while I was getting it. It was terrible. I thought the tattoo artist would never be able to look me in the eye again. Turns out it's rather common if you – you know. If a bit of pain turns you on.” 

Louis' mouth suddenly feels dry and he's glad the kettle whistles in that exact moment, giving him an excuse to disappear into the kitchen for a few seconds.

“So, what does it say?” he asks Harry as he sets down two mugs.

“It says 'Can I Stay?'. It's a song I once liked.”

“And you don't like it anymore?” Louis pours hot water over the teabags and grabs the milk from the fridge under the bar.

“No, it's just,” Harry averts his eyes. “I got it when I was with Matt. It's not like I got it _for_ him, but I was definitely thinking about him when I got it. I thought he felt the same way I did. I don't regret getting it, but sometimes it makes me sad. Sometimes, when I see it, I can't help thinking about him. I'm over him, I know I am, but it's there. It's like a constant reminder of how badly I fucked up.”

Louis wants to wipe away the sadness from Harry's face. He wants to help him find a new meaning to the tattoo. He doesn't know how to do any of those things or why he wants to, so he doesn't say anything. He splashes a bit of milk in his tea and hands Harry the carton.

“No, thanks, no milk for me. Can you add a bit of cool water in instead?”

“What?” Louis is appalled. “I won't do such an atrocity.” 

“Please, I'll burn my tongue otherwise.” Harry is pouting and it's not fair. 

It's not fair that Louis is willing to indulge in such a bizarre request just because Harry's face is sort of cute when his bottom lip is sticking out like that. Louis wants to bang his head against the wall. He feels a bit like Dobby.

He adds a bit of cool water to Harry's tea and gives it back to a smug Harry.

They drink their tea in silence. Louis is sneaking glances at Harry over the rim of his mug.

“So, tonight,” Harry says slowly, measuring his words. “This was a one time thing, right?” He's peering into his tea, his eyebrows cinched together, tousled curls hanging down, framing his face.

Louis hates when Harry acts like this, when he's all careful around him. Louis doesn't know what to say, because he had pictured this as a one off, but now it looks like Harry did, too, and the thought slightly pisses Louis off. Which is unreasonable. Louis had never entertained the idea of getting off with Harry again, because this was just a one time thing with the sole purpose of helping Louis get over that sickeningly sappy cuddling session they'd shared.

“Don't know. I think so. ” Louis shrugs noncommittally and collects the empty mugs. He discards them in the sink, avoiding looking at Harry. He flicks off the remaining lights.

“C'mon, it's fucking late. Greg’s gonna kill me if he finds out.”

Louis walks to the front door and Harry follows him. His face is neutral and he produces a stick of lip balm from his jeans pocket. And fuck. It's Raspberry Lemonade Blast Blistex, Louis' favourite lip balm in the world, the one he used to steal from Claire's shelf when they were younger. It smells delicious, and Louis has the impelling urge to draw Harry in and lick it right off his lips, and kiss him. Fuck. Raspberry Lemonade lip balm holds the blame for Louis' plan going up in smoke. 

His plan was a complete, utter failure.

*

On Sunday morning, Louis wakes up with throbbing morning wood and the faint recollection of a dream where he and Harry had engaged in a heated snogging session. Only then, the memory of what had happened the night before pops up at the front of his mind, complete with an array of details. A close-up of Harry's cock, the image of Harry's hand on him, and that of Harry's red kissed lips afterwards. Fuck.

Louis was so sure that his plan would've helped him overcome the strange state he had been in since The Kiss, that the built up sexual frustration affecting him would've been swept away once and for all, that it would've been over and done with.

It hasn't worked in the slightest, and Louis is positively fuming.

Louis' obsession has now turned into an incurable itch that runs deep beneath his skin. The fact that they got each other off only made it worse, turning the itch into something resembling a rash, that only gets more excruciating and grows bigger each time he tries to scratch at it.

*

That night at The Jockey, Louis tries to ignore the others. He's swamped with work anyway so it's not like they find anything odd about it, but when Louis' shift is almost over Zayn starts to bug him. He wants to go down to the canal to try a new brand of weed his mate brought him from Liverpool, since in Chatsworth it's virtually impossible to find anything other than the shitty stuff the Horans and their minions sell. 

When Louis learns all three of them are planning to go, he finds he doesn't want to be left out. He's not usually a pushover, but Zayn is pretty persuasive when he wants to and Louis hasn't smoked in ages. As he, Liam, Harry and Zayn walk the short distance from The Jockey to the abandoned train station there's a thin breeze caressing their skin and for the first time Louis can smell spring in the air. The sky is clear and the moon illuminates the deserted street in a dull light.

Louis hasn't said a single word to Harry all night, and he's aware Harry is starting to catch onto his off behaviour. Louis is so sick of it all. He doesn't want to think about Harry's quizzical look after Louis had ignored his question. The puzzlement quickly turns into hurt when, as weed starts to make his way into his system, Louis starts to act silly and banter with Liam and Zayn, completely disregarding Harry's presence. Harry is frowning at him.

Louis and Zayn are sharing a bottle of Smirnoff, and that, coupled with the two pints and the gin & tonic Louis had had at work, is making his head all woozy. Louis stubs the butt of his joint and lies on the tepid concrete, gazing upwards at the starless sky. He's pissed, high, and this Harry situation is putting his back up. Zayn is busy rolling another spliff and Liam and Harry start to chatter about Harry's music. They have Louis' attention. Harry never told him anything about his music, not that Louis had ever asked. 

“It doesn't feel right to write music without Niall.” Harry's drawling out all of his vowels, voice made even slower by the weed. It's like it takes him half a minute to utter one bloody word, and it's driving Louis bonkers. “We've been writing songs together since we were fourteen. I don't know, I feel like I have writer's block or something.”

Liam chuckles and Louis barely holds in a snort. Writer’s block, really.

“Listen to a lot of music, then. Like, when an author has writer's block they say it helps to read a lot of books. So maybe it's the same for a songwriter,” Liam replies.

Songwriter. Louis takes another sip of vodka in order to stifle a sneer. Harry might be presumptuous but Liam is giving him credit for it. 

“I'm doing it, I spend all my day listening to music. Reading. Nothing's working though.” Harry sighs.

“Sounds like a miserable life you lead,” Louis snipes at him.

“What?” Harry sounds taken aback.

“I said, it sounds like a miserable life to spend all day lazing around listening to crappy music and reading crappy novels.”

“What is your problem?” Harry says.

Louis bolts upright. “Maybe you are my problem. You complain about having writer's block, which, frankly, is hilarious, and then admit you spend all day doing nothing. It just pisses me off, that's all.”

“Louis, shut up. Nobody asked for your opinion,” Liam butts in.

“No, fuck off Liam. I can't believe you're defending him. I work my arse off all day long, so forgive me if I find it a bit irritating when someone flaunts their idleness in my face.”

“He wasn't even talking to you, mate. Calm down,” Liam retorts.

Zayn is glaring at them, his hands frozen, the spliff only half rolled. 

Louis' vaguely aware of how little sense he's currently making, but he just feels so angry, his blood sizzling with pent up frustration.

“Louis, you're talking out your arse,” Liam says. “I'm tired of your bullshit.”

“ _You_ are tired of my bullshit? I'm tired of _you_ ,” Louis yells, pointing at him and Harry. “You, Liam, you're always giving him excuses to brag about something. You always team up with him when he wants to put on ugly music at The Jockey or when we're in your car. You go on little runs together and cry about Oasis. 'Oh, my God, I'm not over Oasis splitting yet, my poor heart!'” As Louis mocks Harry's over dramatic spiels about Oasis' split, Harry seems to be on the verge of bursting into tears. Louis goes on, “Who gives a flying fuck about Oasis? You're fucking ridiculous. They are right arseholes, Jesus. Only a twat like you could cry about them.”

“You can't be serious,” Liam says in disbelief.

Harry is silent and – is his bottom lip quivering?

“I'm dead serious. The Gallagher brothers are cuntbuckets.”

“For fuck's sake, Louis. Are you serious about all of this? Do you even hear yourself? You sound like your father.” Liam's eyes widen in horror when he realises what he's said.

Louis' heart skips a beat. He feels like he's about to faint. Or be sick.

“What the hell, Liam!” Zayn yells.

They're all silent, petrified. All eyes are on Louis, and Louis' face is burning in a mixture of anger, shame and sheer mortification. He doesn't know what to say or what to do. He looks at Harry, and Harry's staring back at him with something that Louis' addled brain interprets as pity. And what was Louis expecting? For him to tell Liam off and defend Louis, when Louis had first ignored him and then lashed out at him for virtually no reason?

Louis' mind is ambushed with flashes from May Day, when he and Harry had gone to explore the abandoned village, Harry's words replaying in his mind over and over again. _You're a good person, Louis... You're nothing like your father._ Louis' stomach is lurching, his throat feels like it's closing up.

He jumps to his feet and leaves.

He stomps down the main road, striding past The Jockey. He's just past the Malik's shop when the tears start to roll down his cheeks.

When he gets home, he turns off his phone and crawls under the covers. He's still crying, exploding in choked sobs each time he thinks about Liam's words and the look on Harry's face. He hasn't cried in so long, but it doesn't make him feel any better.

He's a failure. He's a complete, utter failure.

*

The next morning Louis is hungover, and he feels like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He tries not to dwell on the events of the night before and begrudgingly drags himself to work. His co-workers must notice that he's sulking because they treat him like he’s terminally ill, especially Prue. She buys him tea and asks him if he's alright and Louis lies. He says he's alright and fibs his way out of Prue's concern by attributing his puffy eyes and the dark circles underneath them and his gruff voice to his hangover alone. She perhaps senses that Louis is lying, but she doesn't call him out, only pats him on the back and offers him a cigarette that Louis refuses.

He keeps to himself and begs Julian to take up the front desk so he can hide away in the office, just in case someone decides to pay him a visit. But let's be real, why would Harry want to visit him now? He probably hates him. Louis must've been out of his mind to even consider liking Harry. How had he come up with such an idiotic idea? They're not even friends, they had never been friends. 

He still hasn't turned his phone on, which is not like him and absurdly irresponsible. What if one of the girls had needed him, or Ian? Or his father showed up and didn't feel well? He doubts it, since he hasn't seen him in several days and he's probably somewhere with his new 'friend', Sasha, but still, the point stands.

When Louis gets home that evening there's still a twisting sensation in his guts and he just wants to curl up on the sofa and wallow. At first he thinks the house is empty, but then Claire scurries down the stairs dressed to the nines, a compact mirror in one hand and lipstick in the other.

“You going out?” Louis asks. He takes off his jacket and toes off his shoes, throwing them in the general direction of the shoe rack.

“Yes, I gotta meet up with Lilah and a couple friends." She stands right under the kitchen light and smears red lipstick over her top lip. "Don't wait up.”

“You're kidding right." Louis half-heartedly washes his hands in the sink and puts the kettle on. "You have school tomorrow morning.”

“I know, I'll go, don't worry,” Claire replies, annoyed. "Ian's sleeping at Charlie's." 

Louis' not surprised, he suspects Ian rather loves spending time with Charlie's not fucked up family. 

"Ruby's sleeping at Megan's," Claire says, rummaging in her purse. "Where the hell is my phone?"

"Right there," Louis sullenly points at Claire's phone where it's resting on the kitchen counter. He can't believe he's going to be left alone to be miserable. He feels like shit. Who even is Megan? He hadn’t been expecting Ian and Claire to be home, but he had hoped he could spend the evening watching bad telly, his head resting on Ruby's shoulder while she read, Orestes curled at his feet.

“Don't drink,” he tells Claire as she leaves. She doesn't even bother to answer, slamming the door behind her.

Louis sinks down into the sofa cushions, wishing he could disappear into the creases of the fabric, wishing that the heavy weight in his chest would just go away. He's a shit brother and a shit friend and probably also a shit son. 

He doesn't want to cry again; he's already felt on the edge of tears all day. He flicks through the channels on the telly, but there's nothing that remotely interests him. He settles for Hollyoaks reruns on E4 but he's not really paying attention. He feels light-headed; he hasn't had dinner, and he hadn’t eaten a proper lunch either, eating a Twix from the vending machines around three. He’d drunk lots of tea, though. That could possibly explain his pounding heart.

He tries with all of his might to keep away any memory from the night before. His friends must hate him now. He's managed to make Liam angry, of all people. And Harry. He doesn't know how to deal with the thought of Harry's hurt eyes, or his pity. Louis doesn't need anyone's pity, let alone Harry Styles'. He's better off by himself.

He hopes at least Zayn doesn't hate him. He's his best mate in the world. They're supposed to always have each other’s backs, to stick together through thick and thin. From what Louis remembers, Zayn hadn't looked too pleased with Liam's words, but then he'd also stared at Louis without uttering a word in his defence, just like Harry. They must all believe Louis is a failure. 

Louis doesn't know if he had nodded off or if he was dozing, but he’s woken by the doorbell ringing. 

“Claire, for Christ's sake,” Louis curses, staggering to his feet, his body heavy. “You _always_ leave your bloody keys at home!” He's shouting but he doesn't care; his sister's an imbecile.

He opens the door. It's not Claire.

“Your phone's been dead all day,” Harry greets him. 

Louis is shocked, but there's a clenching feeling in his chest. Harry's standing there, looking like he grew three feet taller overnight, tense like a pole, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. He's glaring at Louis, lips pressed together.

“I didn't feel like talking to anyone,” Louis snarls, mutinous.

Harry scoffs from where he's standing outside on the doorstep. “Are you gonna let me in or do I have to stay out here all night?”

Louis steps back and Harry pushes past him, closing the door behind him with a bang.

“I think you at least owe me an explanation.” Harry's speaking like he has to muster up all of his composure, hands folded into fists at his sides.

“I'm a shit friend. That's it,” Louis snaps back, puffing out his chest.

“That’s not an explanation or an apology, Louis," Harry sighs. He slouches down and it looks like all the anger seeps out of him. "It's an excuse, and a shitty one. I thought we were gonna be ok, that we could still be friends. At worst I thought it would've been a bit awkward at first. I didn't think you'd have gone back to acting like a bloody wanker and treating me like shit for no reason.” Harry's words are venomous and he looks hurt. His eyes are wide, brows deeply furrowed. He's staring Louis down in that way that makes Louis want to burst into flames right there and then. 

Louis is physically unable to speak, his tongue glued to his palate, mouth as dry as parchment.

“I was so sure it meant nothing to you.” Harry's voice catches and he screws his eyes shut, “Why are you such a jerk?” When he opens them they shine with unshed tears.

Louis can't stand seeing Harry like this, but he can't say anything either. He can't vocalise how much this situation has been affecting him, he feels tongue-tied in the worst way possible. He'd like to say that he'd stupidly thought the two of them could still be friends like nothing had happened, that they could pretend they hadn't had sex. They could act like they hadn't slept in the same bed, snuggled against one another, holding hands. That's what's sending Louis around the bend, that's what he can't get out of his head. The fact is, Harry's shown time and time again that he trusts Louis. He has shown it in the way he's shared his fears and worries with him, and in the way he's opened up to him, making himself vulnerable. And Louis has unconsciously made Harry think that he was doing the right thing in trusting him. 

He wasn't though, Louis' already proven him wrong. Louis' a dickhead, just like his father. Last night he screwed it all up, he'd acted like an absolute prick and fucked it all up. 

Louis should tell Harry he has to go, he has to leave him alone and go back to hating him. That he was wrong in trusting Louis even as a friend, that he was wrong in hoping Louis would let him in his fucked up mind. Louis doesn't say any of this though. Harry's still looking at him, bewildered, eyes pink and wet at the corners, and Louis pounces on him. Louis' hands fly up to push at Harry's shoulders and Louis is sure he must've gone batshit crazy, because he's trying to kiss Harry again. 

Harry grabs his wrists, stopping him. “What are you doing?”

Louis disentangles his arms from Harry's grip and pins Harry to the wall behind him, sliding his knee between Harry's legs. Harry's body goes limp and Louis holds him still, kissing him hard. It's the third time he's kissed him, and each time it has been so utterly terrifying to be the one to close the distance. But it has been so mind-blowing, that Louis just wants to do it another million times. He bites down on Harry's lips, one hand buried in Harry's hair and one firmly planted on his hip. Harry's hand is fisting in Louis' shirt, his whole body responding to Louis' kiss. Louis is desperate for more, he's hard and he can feel the outline of Harry's cock against his. He's grinding into Harry's hips, pushing Harry against the wall.

“Louis, what are you – ” Harry gasps, his hands pressed to Louis' chest, pushing weakly.

“Shut up, please. Just shut up,” Louis cuts him off and kisses him again.

Harry groans and shoves Louis away, unexpectedly. Louis trips on one of the stray shoes he'd messily left around earlier and topples over, landing on his bum. It hurts like hell, and he's about to protest and call Harry an idiot when Harry falls to his knees and straddles him, and every possible complaint dies in Louis' mouth. Harry's arse is pressing down on his cock and Harry's kissing his neck, mouthing at his jaw, nudging his dick against Louis' stomach. 

They're lying on the floor, a few feet from the front door, both breathless and hard and the whole situation is simply unparalleled. They have gone from being enemies each other's nemesis to being sort of friends to _this_. Louis doesn't have the faintest idea what this is, but at the moment he couldn't care less. Harry's lips are smooth like silk and his tongue licks hot stripes behind Louis' ear, while his hands roam underneath Louis' t-shirt. And Louis – he has no idea what's happening, but there's a sort of disconnect between what his body is screaming at him and the place in his head he's been trying to avoid for the past week. Louis' hands splay across Harry's lower back, grazing the curve of his arse.

“I want you,” Louis croaks into Harry's ear. Louis' words make Harry shiver, and Louis arches his body up. Harry is burying his face into the crook of Louis' neck, crushing his hips down, nonsensical noises coming out of his mouth.

“I want you, now,” Louis reiterates, because he can't think straight. There's a scorching hotness in his crotch where it's connected to Harry's arse and he desperately wants to see Harry spread out beneath him, wants to shower Harry with praise as he fucks into him and makes him come undone piece by piece. He feels savage. He's sure that if he and Harry fuck everything will go back to normal. Once they've properly shagged, once they've let it all out of their system, it will be okay. Everything will be okay.

Harry's voice is broken when he finally replies, “Yes, fuck, Louis. I want you. I want you too,” breathless. 

Louis cups Harry's cheeks and draws him in for another bruising kiss. Harry's mouth feels raw but luscious, and Louis has never felt anything like this from a kiss. Harry's phone is vibrating but they both ignore it. They're rubbing their clothed dicks against each other and if they don't stop they'll get so worked up they won't be able to make it to the shagging part. 

Harry's phone starts to chime then, and it's really the most annoying ringtone ever. Harry takes his phone out of his pocket and declines the call when he sees who it is. He throws the phone on the floor and helps Louis out of his shirt. Louis does a little victory dance in his head as Harry starts to kiss and nip at Louis' chest, until he's reached his navel. Louis watches Harry, unable to blink for fear that this is all just a dream and in reality he's passed out on the settee.

Harry's phone is ringing again and Louis can see Zayn's name flashing on the screen. Harry ignores the call again and Louis is so grateful because he doesn't want this moment to end just yet. He sloppily claws at Harry's hips until Harry takes the hint and strips off his shirt. Harry's torso is broad and soft and he has very little chest hair, and Louis only wants to see Harry's pale skin blooming with love bites. Harry's cross necklace keeps bumping into Louis' chin as Harry kisses Louis' lips and strokes his hands down Louis' sides. After another missed call the phone goes off with a message. 

“Let me just see who it is,” Harry huffs, irritated, mouth still on Louis' lips.

Harry retrieves his phone and his forehead creases. He shows Louis the preview of the text.

_Pick up it's urgent._

Louis' heart was pounding as it was, but now there's fear curling up at the bottom of his stomach. He glances up and meets Harry's eyes, dark and filled with worry.

“Call him,” Louis blurts. He's still lying flat on his back. He props himself on his elbows as Harry dials Zayn's number.

“What happened?” Harry says into the phone. Louis is so close to the speaker that he can hear Zayn's voice on the other side of the line.

“Have you any idea where Louis is?” Zayn sounds upset. “Fuck, I've been trying to call him for an hour, but it’s going straight to voicemail. Liam's in the hospital.”

Harry springs to his feet in a millisecond. “What? What happened? Is he alright?” He offers Louis a hand and once Louis' standing on shaky legs he grabs the phone from Harry's grip. He feels breathless for one too many reasons.

“What the fuck happened?” Louis yells into the receiver. Harry puts on his shirt and fishes for his car keys, already half outside the door.

“Just come here already. He's ok, it's nothing life threatening. But can you please get here?” Zayn's frantic, and Louis catches the shirt Harry's throwing at him and clutches it to his chest.

“We'll be there as soon as possible.” Louis is digging his feet into his Vans as if they were slippers, Harry staring at him from the doorway.

“Alright. We're at Manchester Royal Infirmary. Be quick.” Zayn hangs up.

*

It's a blurred rush to the hospital and Louis' glad Harry is driving because he can't stop shaking, fear coiled deep in his gut. He feels like he did the night his father had to be taken to A&E for alcohol poisoning. They forego that stage this time, since Zayn's waiting for them outside of the hospital entrance.

“What happened?” Louis asks, unable to hold at bay any of the anxiety that's taken over him.

“I'll explain later, he's not in danger, ok? Just follow me.” Zayn's pale, and he smells so strongly of cigarettes Louis presumes he’s been chain smoking while waiting for him and Harry. He leads them into a small waiting room and when Louis sees his sister and Lilah curled up on a hospital chair, Claire wearing Zayn's leather jacket, his heart threatens to jump out of his throat.

“What the fucked happened? Why are you here?” He can’t keep his voice down and he barely registers Zayn trying to shush him. Harry is a solid presence behind him and Louis feels sort of oddly anchored, like tiny ropes are holding him together. He's fucking terrified and his brain's unable to process everything at once.

Everyone's looking at him like he's mental but he couldn't give a damn, he just wants to know what the fuck happened.

“Just fucking lower your voice, ok?” Zayn reproaches him. “Liam was stabbed.” Zayn's voice catches, “Some fucking dickhead stabbed him.” 

“What?! Why? What happened?” Louis' head is whirling. “Where's the bastard who stabbed him?”

Claire starts sobbing, and Louis just doesn't understand. He flops down on the nearby chair and hugs Claire to his side, blinking up at Zayn.

“Harry?” Zayn's beckoning him. “Could you take Claire and Lilah to the canteen and get us all some tea? Please.”

“Of course.” Harry puts a hand on Claire' shoulder. “C'mon.”

Lilah stands up and she's pink eyed too. Louis squeezes Claire tight and leaves a kiss on the top of her head before he lets her go.

“You ok, pet?” Louis asks his sister, still clutching her hand.

“Yeah.” She wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of Zayn's jacket. “Can Zayn tell you what happened?” 

“Yes, if you promise me you're all right.” Louis' trying to get her to look him in the eye but her head's bowed down.

“Yes. You promise you won't be mad?” She's still crying and Louis is still so confused.

“Ok,” he frowns, but lets go of his sister's hand. He locks eyes with Harry for a second before he, Lilah and Claire start walking towards the lifts, and Louis' left alone with Zayn.

“Fuck,” Zayn sits down heavily and runs his fingers through his rumpled quiff, letting out a long, uneven breath.

“Liam was coming over to hang out with me at the shop,” Zayn begins, staring at the wall opposite them. Louis studies his tired profile with a million questions on the tip of his tongue, but he stays silent. “He pulled over when he saw Lilah and Claire with these two blokes. And I'm glad he did because they were harassing them.”

“What do you mean, harassing them?” Louis' going over Claire's words in his head. She’d promised she was alright. 

“I don't know, pushing them around, but they were scared. Liam tried to tell the guys to leave them the fuck alone.”

“Claire told me they were seeing some friends,” Louis comments, blankly.

“I have no fucking idea where they met them, they wouldn't tell me. They said they're not from here.” Zayn's hand's still on his head, pulling on his hair. “They don't even know their real names, only, like, how their mates call them.”

“Fucking Christ,” Louis says for lack of better words. He's pissed off at his sister but even more pissed off at himself. He'd left his phone dead. What if Claire had tried to call him and couldn't get in touch with him and Liam hadn't seen them? Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“I know.” Zayn is grimacing. “Liam punched one of them, the other stabbed him in the gut and they ran away.” 

“Oh fuck,” Louis plants his elbows on his thighs and throws his head in his open palms, mirroring Zayn's stance, fingers clutching at his hair. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“No wonder Claire and Lilah look so shocked,” Louis mumbles to his shoes.

“Yeah.” Zayn sounds a thousand miles away now. “They called me and I drove them here in Liam's car. The car's full of blood. Claire's hands were covered in blood; she'd wrapped her scarf around Liam's abdomen. I threw her scarf and her jumper in a bin earlier.”

Louis is breathing hard through his nose and his vision is blurred at the edges. He sighs shakily and forces his head up. Zayn's staring at him, pale, like a ghost.

“How is he?” Louis wants to see him and he wants to yell at his sister and he wants to cry out of rage, all at the same time.

“I think he's fine. Mostly. His parents are inside with him now.” Zayn points to a blue door on their right. “I heard a doctor say he'd needed a transfusion.”

Neither Zayn nor Louis say anything after that. They sit in silence for a while, until Liam's parents suddenly appear from behind the blue door. Zayn and Louis jump to their feet in an instant. Liam's father is glaring at Zayn, his eyes slits as he moves forward. Zayn stumbles back, the backs of his knees bumping into his chair, forcing him to stop his retreat. Liam's father pokes his index finger in Zayn's chest, intimidating, face mere inches from Zayn's.

“Look what you've done. It's all your fault, you fucking Paki,” he spits. He fists Zayn's shirt for a second, Zayn's arms remaining glued to his sides. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Liam's father lets go of Zayn as if he’d been burned. Louis hadn't realised the person shouting was him. He's flabbergasted, frozen on the spot with his own voice ringing into his ears. Liam's mother is watching the scene motionless, clutching a rosary in her hand.

“You two. You're the scum of the fucking earth.” Liam's father looks on the verge of a heart attack. His eyes are bugging out and there's a vein visibly pulsing on his forehead. He's livid. “You stay away from my son, you lazy arses, fucking washed up loafers. You should be on probation doing something useful instead of littering the fucking streets. You're scum.” 

Harry, Claire and Lilah step out of the lift at that exact moment. Harry's holding two paper cups in his hands and he goes wide eyed as he takes in the scene.

“And what are you doing with these two lousy shits? _You_ come from a respectable family,” Liam's father addresses Harry, not as angry as he was before, but not amicable either.

Harry flashes a puzzled look towards Louis and Zayn. “They're perfectly respectable company, Mr. Payne,” he replies, as calm as possible. 

“You might end up like them if you keep hanging around in a shithole like Chatsworth,” Liam's father spits with contempt. It takes all of Louis' will to not start shouting at him again. His blood is boiling with rage and with the urge to punch Liam's father in the face. Zayn is holding his elbow in a tight grip that would normally make him flinch. Right now though, it's the only thing keeping Louis from jumping to Harry's defence.

“They're my friends, and Liam's our friend too. We're here because we care about him.” Harry's voice is sort of flat, but his eyes are shooting daggers at Liam's father. They're fierce, and Louis can see that Harry's staving off his emotions.

“He doesn't need any of you. It's all your fault he's in that hospital room,” Liam's father says, with much less bite. 

“Gil, let's go,” Liam's mother says. “Liam's been asking about them anyway.” She's pulling on his arm but he wiggles out of her grip. He shoves past Harry and storms off towards the lifts, Liam's mother in tow, her eyes cast downward, so that she doesn't have to meet anyone's gaze.

“They won't let you in, you're not family. I advise you stay away from him,” Liam's father says, before he disappears into the lift.

When Liam's parents have left, the waiting room plunges into an unnatural silence. Zayn's petrified, standing with one arm straight like an arrow resting along his hips, the other still wrapped around Louis' elbow. Louis' hearing is slowly getting back to normal and he frees his arm from Zayn's grip, slinging it around Claire, who's been watching him with a sad look ever since she came back from the cafeteria.

“It's alright babe. We'll talk about this tomorrow, ok?” Louis mumbles into her hair. She nods and snakes her arm around Louis' waist.

“Liam's father is right, it's not visiting hours. Only family can go in,” Harry states, handing a cup to Zayn and one to Louis. “We should come back tomorrow, there's no point in staying here.”

They all squeeze into Harry's Peugeot, and hardly anyone speaks a word during the journey to Chatsworth.

*

The next day Louis hops on a bus to central Manchester as soon as he's out of the library.

Zayn's there when Louis arrives in Liam's room. There's an elderly man snoring loudly in the bed to Liam's left, the bed on the right empty. Zayn stands up from the chair and awkwardly shuffles towards the door even as Louis' still making his way in.

“I'm leaving. Sophie and Liam's parents will be here soon, anyway.” Zayn is stiff, all tensed up and clipped voice.

“See you tonight?” Louis asks uncertain. He wasn't expecting to see Zayn there, and not in this state. 

“Yeah,” Zayn replies. “Bye Liam.” He's out the door without even sparing them a second glance.

Louis' miffed, but he sits down and takes a good look at Liam. His face is pale, chapped lips curved up into a small smile. He's sporting a good amount of scruff that could soon be classified as a full on beard and he's wearing a light blue hospital gown.

“How are you feeling? Does it hurt?” Louis feels rather idiotic as soon as the words leave his mouth. Of course it must fucking hurt.

“I've been better, but I'm on pain medication, so.” Liam sounds drowsy and like he’s speaking with his mouth full. “I'll be laid out for more than two weeks.”

Louis feels himself wince. “I'm so sorry. I don't know how to say thank you, Liam.” There's guilt biting at Louis' insides.

“You don't have to, anyone would've done what I did. I was unlucky that the guy had a knife, or they'd both be in jail right now, possibly with a smashed nose.” Liam acting like what he did was no big deal makes Louis' blood sizzle with remorse.

“No, fuck,” Louis blurts. “I mean it, thank you so much. It should've been me, it was my sister you defended.” Louis grabs Liam's forearm and gives it a squeeze. “I'm so glad you were near the shop, it was such a lucky coincidence.”

“Yeah.” Liam averts his eyes and trains them down on his lap. “I was going to The Jockey to see you, hadn't realised it was Monday, but thank God I'm so scatterbrained,” he chuckles, “or I wouldn't have been there.” 

Louis frowns and there's something that doesn't add up in Liam's retelling of the previous night. But he doesn't say anything, only then noticing that Liam's right hand is bandaged.

“What happened to your hand?” 

Liam lifts it in front of his face. The part not covered by the gauze is swollen and of an alarming purplish red. “It was the punch. I hit that fucker quite hard, I hope he feels as shit as I do now.” Liam carefully repositions it on the bed, where it rests limp next to his thigh. “But it should be nothing, only a contusion. I fucking hope so.” Something sad flashes behind Liam's eyes, and Louis thinks he knows why.

“You still haven't told anyone you got into the firefighter program?”

“Not really. There could be no point now.” Liam smiles sadly, and Louis wants to hug him but he's not sure he'd be able to do that without hurting him.

“When are you supposed to start training?”

“They haven't told us yet. But it could be very soon, and they could tell me now that next week I have to be in Liverpool or something.” Liam's wincing and his eyes seem wet.

Liam's never told Louis anything about Liverpool. “Why Liverpool?” 

“There are no spots open for firefighters in Manchester. It was either Liverpool or Leeds, and it could've been worse. They're not that far, but I'll have to move out either way.”

Now that Louis knows Liam might go live somewhere else, he almost doesn't want him to go. And why is he so selfish? Liam was just stabbed in the gut for his sister's sake, and Louis is thinking disgustingly selfish thoughts. Louis is floored, and the silence stretches on for definitely too long.

“I didn't mean it, you know,” Liam says eventually.

“What?” Louis' hand is still on Liam's arm.

“What I said about you and your father. I was being a jerk, I shouldn't have said that.” 

“No, Liam, don't.” Louis wants to hug him more then ever. He rubs at his shoulder, sensing how stiff his upper body is. “It's me who should apologise. I was drunk and high and stupid. I didn't mean any of what I said.”

“Yeah, I know,” Liam cuts him off, “But I'm not the one you should be apologising to.” 

It's Louis' turn to bow his head for a second. “You're right.” He's such a shit friend.

“Zayn told me about what my dad said.” Louis is surprised to hear this. “Just don't listen to him, ok? I'm not proud of you finding out what kind of person he really is. To be honest, I'm relieved I'm gonna move out soon, sometimes it's just so suffocating to breathe in the same space as him.”

“I had no idea, Liam. Why didn't you say anything?” This conversation is only making Louis feel worse by the second, like the worst best friend ever, unworthy of having a person like Liam by his side.

“I thought I'd gotten used to it, used to his angry outbursts and my mother going to church every morning and praying that God forgives her because she hates her husband.” Liam sighs, and he's clearly embarrassed to be saying this but Louis thinks he really shouldn't be. It should be Louis who is flushed with shame because he hadn't realised Liam was going through more then he could imagine. 

“See? It's a shitty situation.” Liam tries to scoot closer to his pillows with his bum, but he's flinching. “I'll never be able to come out to them you know. I really hope I'll have time to recover before I have to start training so I can move out. I want to move out so badly.” He looks on the verge of tears again, and Louis grabs his bandage-free hand in his.

“If you don't recover – What could you do? Isn't there anyone you could contact?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Liam's hand clings tightly to Louis' before letting it go. “You should leave before my parents arrive, I don't want my dad to see you here. I'm so fucking sorry.” 

“Liam, please.” Louis stands up and envelops Liam's shoulders in his arms as delicately as he can. “You're the best person I know, I don't care if your father hates me. I'm here. For whatever reason, don't hesitate to call me. Even if it's the middle of the night and you can't sleep because your wound hurts or whatever.” 

Liam hugs him back with his good hand pressed between Louis' shoulder blades, “Ok. Thank you. And talk to Harry.”

Louis huffs, rolling his eyes before releasing his grip on Liam. He knows Liam's right. He texts Harry on the bus back to Chatsworth.

L: _Are you in Chatsworth tonight?_

H: _Don't know... Promised Nan I'd watch Gogglebox with her!_

L: _I gotta talk to you._

H: _You know that's the scariest thing you could ever tell someone right?_

L: _Does this mean you're coming?_

H: _Yeah perhaps before you close. But I hate you now. X_

Louis smiles down at his phone, feeling rather pathetic, but there's no one around to judge him.

*

That night Zayn comes into The Jockey early, orders too many glasses of vodka on the rocks and mopes around between the bar and innumerable cigarette breaks. 

There's no other way to put it, really. He’s barely spoken a word to Louis, despite the pub being pretty quiet. Louis had tried more than once to start a normal conversation with him, but it's useless, Zayn looks sullen and he won't tell Louis why. There's no point in bothering him when he's like this; he gets those silent fits that make him a straight up arsehole. If Louis insisted on asking Zayn what's making him so miserable, Zayn would tell him to fuck off after 0.2 seconds.

When Zayn's on his fourth vodka, Louis has had enough of it. It's ten thirty and the pub's empty apart from four people playing a game at a table in a corner, Greg, Rebecca's mum and Rebecca, who's sitting by Tim's high chair.

“Is this about what happened to Liam?” Louis says without preamble, leaning against the bar in front of where Zayn's been sitting motionless for the last forty minutes.

“What?” Zayn's immediately defensive, but his words come out slurred. He's drunker than Louis had imagined. “What the fuck are you on about?” 

“I don't know man,” Louis opts for a harsh tone in return, hoping Zayn understands that Louis won't leave him alone until he talks. “You looked like shit last night. And today when I came to see Liam you acted properly strange.” 

“I'm not happy about what happened, ok? What's strange with that?” Zayn replies, but he’s guarded and Louis knows there's more.

“That’s not it. Don't lie to me, I don't wanna see you like this. You were right mad after what happened with Liam's father.”

“Of course, I was. He's a fucking dickhead. He's a bastard,” Zayn barks, banging his fist on the bar. “Just fuck off.”

Here he goes, Louis thinks. Louis can sense there's something Zayn isn't telling him. Louis doesn't want to make him uncomfortable, but he doesn't want Zayn to suffer alone either. He's brooding, and he's getting drunk by himself, and he's blatantly down in the dumps.

“Liam told me he was coming here on a Monday night. Like he'd forgotten The Jockey is closed on Mondays. That doesn't make any sense.”

“Proper looner, isn't he?” Zayn sneers.

“Don't act like you hate him now. I know you don't.” Louis wishes Zayn would stop lying to him. He doesn't know why he's doing this and that's pissing him off. “You told me you were gonna see him. Hang out with him. So what’s the truth?”

“What do you want me to say, eh? You won't fucking bugger off until I've told you what you wanna hear, will you?” Zayn says, a little louder than is appropriate, his reticence backfiring.

“What the fuck?” Louis recoils. He wasn't expecting an outburst.

“We shagged, ok?!” Zayn's head whips around to see if anyone overheard him. 

Louis is astonished. He's not sure he's heard right. “What?” 

“We shagged once.” Zayn throws his head on the bar, resting his forehead against it, hiding his face.

“When?”

“Couple weeks ago. Before we went on that stupid hike.” Zayn sounds distant from where he's speaking.

“No, you're joking. Tell me you're joking.” Louis feels like he’s just been told the earth is actually flat. “Only that one time?” 

“Yes,” Zayn quickly replies. “I mean no. We've seen each other since then.” 

“What do you mean, seen each other? Liam's with Sophie.” Louis feels dumb saying that.

“I know right.” Zayn lifts his head up. “Don't I know that?” he hisses, his right hand gripping his glass so tight Louis' afraid he might smash it. 

Louis can't wrap his head around this piece of information. It's just too far-fetched. Zayn's straight, right? And they're his two best friends, how could he not have seen it coming? And Liam has a fucking girlfriend.

“We've seen each other. Like, just me and him,” Zayn admits, his cheeks reddening.

“I can't believe this,” Louis says, flatly. “Does Sophie know?”

“No, are you insane? Of course she doesn't know.” Zayn's one second away from banging his head on the counter again, Louis can tell. “Ok, listen,” he starts, “We had a fight, yesterday. And he was coming by to see me, but I didn't know that. That's why I panicked and told you we were gonna hang out, I had no idea what to say. No one can know about this. I'd be fucked. I'm not gay.”

Zayn looks like he's in physical pain, he's wincing and he's peering inside his empty glass. Only a few dejected half melted ice cubes remain there, the vodka long gone. 

“Neither is Liam, you know. You could still be into girls, but also like blokes,” Louis reasons, carefully disentangling Zayn's fingers from the glass.

“I don't know.” Zayn sighs, annoyed. “Yesterday I told him we had to stop seeing each other like that, that we could still be friends but that's it. He didn't take it well, fuck. I told him we can't, because he's with Sophie and I'm not gay.”

“If you're not even a bit gay than why the fuck did you shag him?” Louis whisper-shouts, exasperated.

“He gets under my skin. He's so irritating and we never agree on anything, _anything_. He drives me mad with every fucking word he says. Fuck knows how we ended up doing it.”

“I can't believe this. Who started it?” Louis' still trying to swallow it down, he can't believe this happened right under his fucking nose.

“I don't know Louis, we were bickering and then he just kissed me. He was horrified. And I was even more surprised that – I liked it? It sort of went downhill from there. Fuck. And yesterday I told him we can't do it anymore, and then that shit happened. I'm just fucking glad he's alive, even though my life is all just one giant mess right now,” Zayn concludes, Louis dumbly thinking that dramatics don't really suit him.

“I can't believe neither of you told me anything. I'm your best friend, how could you have lied to me about his?”

Zayn's eyes widen. “That's rich coming from you.” 

“Excuse me?” Louis asks, his eyebrows shooting up. 

“You heard it right, smart arse. You and Harry have been spending a lot of time together lately. You were with him last night when I couldn't find you, and you looked pretty out of it when you arrived. Freshly fucked.”

Louis' praying Greg or someone will come to his rescue, because he really doesn't want to be having this conversation. He has no idea what’s going on with Harry, his mind's still so messed up and everything seems so fragile and undefined and atypical and he can't voice any of it. Not yet, and he's not sure he'll ever be able to. He's attracted to Harry, that much he knows. He likes Harry, but he doesn't know what to make of that knowledge yet. 

“I have no idea where this is going, Zayn. Can we just drop it?”

“No, Louis. You were just giving me shit about Liam, I'm not gonna shut up about this. He always helps you out here, he stays after we've gone home. And you treat him like shit, you know that right? You've got him in the palm of your hand, and you yell at him and act like a total fuckhead.”

Louis doesn't need Zayn to remind him how badly he's fucked up. “I know I was a knobhead.” 

“Do you? He was almost crying when you left. I swear to God, he was all teared up, and he didn't want me or Liam to say anything to him. He just got into his car and left. I don't know what you're playing at, but he likes you.” 

Louis is gaping at Zayn. “What makes you think so?” He knows he's playing dumb, but he can't help it.

“Don't be an arse about this, Louis. Are you two shagging? Tell me the truth.” 

“No, we're not,” Louis says immediately, because they’re not, and Zayn's a hypocrite. Louis' phone buzzes and he fiddles with it for a moment.

“Is that him?” Zayn tries to see the display and Louis swats him away.

“No, fuck off, it's Nick. He wants to see me.” Louis feels like he's already got enough on his plate; there isn't any space in his head for thoughts of Nick right now.

“Are you gonna see him?”

“Don't know. Maybe.” Louis shrugs.

“Because you're shagging Harry now.” Zayn has a triumphant smirk on his face and for a moment Louis wishes Liam were there. Liam would never grill him like that, and he would never be as crude as Zayn when it comes to gossiping about Louis' sex life. 

“For Christ's sake, Zayn.” Louis takes it as a good moment to start clearing up the tables, because he can't stand Zayn's smugness. Zayn stays there while Louis cleans, flicking through the channels on the telly. When Louis is nearly finished he goes for a wee. As he makes his way back from the loo, Zayn gives him a pointed look.

Harry's standing in front of the bar, clad in a pair of jeans and a faded black hoodie. He looks fresh out of the shower, his curls springy. He approaches Louis to give him a hug, which in itself is unusual. Louis' nose catches a whiff of a sweet scent that contrasts with the stuffy air of the pub, his mind rallying to that morning where Harry had held him on the bench at Crosby Beach. The memory makes something warm and cosy whirl in his stomach, but the sensation goes as soon as it arrives when Louis hears Zayn snorting out loud. 

Harry breaks the hug and steps away, giving Zayn a quizzical look. “What?”

“Don't I get a hug hello?” Zayn asks, putting on a fake pout. Harry's cheeks go a bit pink and Louis looks away, pretending he didn't notice. 

“No need to get jealous, Zaynie,” Harry says as he goes to hug Zayn too, almost crushing him. Zayn wiggles out of Harry's bear hug, readjusting his quiff. He takes that as his cue to leave, and he tipsily stumbles out of the door calling a 'goodbye, fuckers'.

Greg shoots Louis a meaningful look before he disappears upstairs, leaving him and Harry alone. Louis is still trying to determine whether or not he might have heard something the other night. Louis sincerely hopes he didn't. A small smirk is playing on Harry's lips as he sits down on a stool. Louis takes a seat next to him and faces the bar. There's too much space between them but Louis isn't brave enough to get closer. Where has all the boldness from the night before gone? He already feels exposed and he hasn't said a single word yet.

“So, are you gonna rip my clothes off and tell me to shut up, or did you really wanna talk?” Harry says, turning his upper body towards Louis', their knees brushing together. Louis feels like he could be choking on his own saliva, and there's a faint sting in his chest. He really was an utter prick the night before, but what Harry said sounded wrong. 

“I reckon you were pretty into it,” Louis replies. “It’s not like I was gonna force myself on you or anything.” 

Harry smiles bashfully and gazes down at his folded hands, his eyelashes long and dark against the pinkish skin of his cheeks, his dimple on display. He looks so innocent that Louis wants to laugh at the stark difference between this Harry and the angry Harry who turned up at his doorstep, unannounced, a little more than twenty-four hours ago. 

Harry's still smiling when he says, “I know, silly.”

“I really wanted to talk, by the way,” Louis blurts, deliberately bumping his leg into Harry's knee. “The other night, I was a right twat. I was talking out of my arse and I didn't mean what I said.” Harry's smile has faded, replaced by an expectant, hopeful expression, light green eyes piercing into Louis'. Louis knows all too well that Harry deserves an explanation, deserves the real reason why Louis acted so moody and lashed out at him and Liam out of the blue. But Louis also knows that he won't be able to say out loud how he really feels, knows he'll come up with excuses that are not good enough.

“I don't think you're a slob or that all you do is laze around. I know you came back to help your family, I don't know what I was thinking. I was just being mean,” Louis lets out all in one breath, before he can chicken out. The last sentence is the hardest to utter, “And I know it's no excuse, but I was pissed,” because he's heard this way too many times coming from of his father's mouth.

Harry's serious as he answers. “I know you didn't mean the things you said. I was hurt, because I'd thought we were past that stage, you know. I appreciate that you wanted to straighten this out.” Harry leans against Louis' side, pressing his shoulder to Louis'. “But I still don't understand why you did it.”

Louis can't speak, can't let the words that would qualify as truth form on his tongue. It's not because he wants to be secretive, or because he consciously doesn't want Harry to know how much the thing between them, whatever it is, is upsetting him. There's a mess inside his head, an array of emotions he's never experienced and a pile of words he doesn't know how to use, doesn't even know if he really can grasp the meaning of.

“I don't know. I was stupid,” Louis reiterates. “But I do dislike Oasis. I loathe them.” 

Harry laughs, and it's a genuinely happy laugh that makes Louis smile in return. “I know you do. I should be looking for a job actually. But I'm useless, I just miss the way it was back in London, and what it felt like doing music with Niall, what it felt like singing in front of a crowd. I really miss that.” Harry says, and it's like a grey cloud passes over his features, dimming the sparkle in his eyes. 

Louis once again wishes he had the power to erase any trace of sadness from Harry's life, but at the same time something settles heavily in his chest, the awareness that Harry would still rather be in London with Niall than here with him, with Liam and Zayn. He pushes that thought away.

“You're not useless.” Louis means it, but he doesn't know how to get Harry to believe him. “I'm amazed at how you replied to Liam's father, by the way. You stood up for me and Zayn. I should've said thank you.”

“It wasn't a big deal,” Harry says, shaking his head. “Wish I could act like that in front of Niall's father. I'm not afraid of Liam's father, he's all bark and no bite. But I'm scared stiff when it comes to Mr. Horan.” Harry lets out a self-deprecating chuckle, turning his head to Louis, their sides still pressed together.

“Shut up, you're stronger than you think.” Louis doesn't know why, but he's whispering. 

“Says you.” Harry's smiling down at him, softly. “You were wrong when you said you're a shit friend and a shit brother. You're neither of those things. Your skin's so much thicker than mine, I wish I could be more like you.” Harry's voice is low, and sincere, and sweet, and Louis is glued to his seat. He's not breathing and he's not blinking and Harry's going to kiss him. He can see it in the way Harry's gaze fixes on his lips as he leans closer, slowly. 

The first touch of Harry's lips to his isn't too different from all of the other times they've kissed, but it feels amplified a thousand times, like sunlight filtering through a magnifying glass, burning a hole in the ground with its force, leaving ruthlessly charred marks in its wake. Louis kisses him back, breathless, Harry's tongue finding its place in his mouth, sliding against his. 

Louis stands up and fits his body in the space between Harry's parted legs, still kissing him, hands cupping Harry's jaw, his fingers splaying over the almost imperceptible stubble. Harry's hands circle his waist, drawing him in, until Louis' stumbling on his own feet, the weight of his body resting against Harry's. Their crotches are pressed together, and Louis gasps into Harry's mouth when he feels Harry's semi against his hip. Harry stars touching him everywhere, trailing his hands down Louis' sides, caressing them over Louis' arse. His touch is too light, too reverent, something Louis didn't know he was craving but which makes his spine tingle with anticipation. Harry's hand settles on Louis' groin, cupping his growing cock.

“We can't –” Louis says, whilst Harry's hand stills. “Not here. I don't want to do anything here.” He doesn't say ‘Because I've done it with Nick too many times, because I don't want it to be like that, because this is different’. He convinces himself it's because he doesn't want to make a fuss and get caught now that Greg has a newborn upstairs, although they've already done stuff in here. But it's not the same now, everything oddly falling into place in Louis' head, in an unprecedented way, in a way that makes his heart race and his hands tremble and only makes him want more. 

“You could come back to mine,” Harry says, still kissing him, gentle, shy, as if he’s afraid Louis will reject him. Louis would never do that, there's nothing that he wants more than Harry in that exact moment. “Please,” Harry murmurs, and it's barely there, barely audible, hitting Louis' mouth. The fact Harry is begging him makes Louis weak in the knees, makes his head reel.

“Yes, of course,” Louis replies, and Harry doesn't hesitate another second before he's on his feet, car keys already clutched in one hand. 

*

They manage to stop snogging each other's faces off just for the time it takes them to drive to West Gorton, Harry gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline, Louis' cock still so hard it never stops throbbing painfully and straining at his jeans, no matter how many times he adjusts himself. Louis' never been to Harry's house, and he's a little nervous. He wants to ask Harry what happens if his dad or his nan sees them, if they have to sneak in or if they can barge in and no one will notice. Perhaps it would've been better if they'd gone to Louis' house, but all of his siblings are supposedly home, Ian probably sleeping in his and Louis' shared bedroom again. 

Harry lives in a block of flats and they take the lift to the top floor, kissing each other without ever stopping to take a breath, Louis shamelessly humping Harry against the wall as the floors tick by. As soon as they're in, Harry pushes Louis against the front door and sinks down to his knees, fiddling with the button of Louis' jeans.

“Wait, what about your dad –”

“Ssh, they're sleeping downstairs,” Harry interrupts him.“ I have the attic to myself, just try not to scream too loud, ok?” he says with a wink.

Louis wants to tell him that he's a cheeky little shit, but he's distracted by Harry groaning as he undoes his flies, hooks his fingers in the waistband of Louis' pants and takes everything down in one swift motion.

“Fuck,” Harry huffs, taking Louis' cock in his hand, “I've been wanting this for months.”

That admission is like an adrenaline rush being fed directly into Louis' veins. He leans against the door in the vain hope that the cold wood might ground him, might help him snap out of the haze Harry's words have sent him into, but it's useless. Harry's mouth envelops his dick, and it takes all of Louis' focus to not come right away, as Harry sucks him off like it's all that's ever mattered to him.

Harry stops blowing him moments later, jumping to his feet and pressing his clothed hips into Louis' wet naked cock. “Please fuck me,” he hisses in Louis’ ear, and Louis regains control of his limbs. 

Harry leads him down a narrow corridor and into his bedroom. It's dark and Harry doesn't turn on the lights, only drawing up the blinds from the roof window, letting the dim moonlight seep through. 

Louis is still trying to make sense of what's happening. He feels overwhelmed with arousal and expectation, and fear, and something else that shoves every other emotion aside and firmly sits right next to where his heart is. Harry is standing in front of him and Louis' pulse picks up when he starts to strip off, the semi-darkness drawing shadows all over his body. Louis stands there motionless, only able to admire Harry's broad shoulders, the sinewy line of his hips, the curve of his erect cock. Louis can't do anything but watch. Harry removes his socks last and stares back at Louis, equally frozen, naked and hard, and waiting. Waiting for Louis to do something, surrendering himself to him, giving him control.

“Louis,” Harry sounds wrecked and that's enough to make Louis snap out of his stupor. 

Louis gets rid of his clothes as fast as he can, dropping them on the floor, and when he's naked he crowds into Harry's space and kisses him hard, pushing him backwards until Harry's calves bump into the mattress and he falls flat on his back. Louis gets on top of him, sliding between Harry's open legs and it's like puzzle pieces fitting together after one of them had been lost and found again. One of the pieces is damaged though, because Louis is still as confused as the night before. He just knows that he wants this, so, so much. He wants Harry, he wants to open him up and discover what it feels like to make Harry his, breach all of his walls, walls that are so much thinner than Louis'. 

It feels like Harry's about to let him in completely, while Louis is still holding so much back. But not this, not tonight. He's not going to hold anything back tonight, because he wants to give Harry everything he wants, as long as Harry's willing to accept Louis' torn edges, and his clouded mind, and his insecurities. Louis’ absolutely terrified, and this time he won’t keep it under wraps. 

Louis grinds his hips down into Harry's as Harry fastens his ankles together behind Louis' back and Louis nips at Harry's jaw.

“Leave marks,” Harry groans, and Louis isn't sure he's heard right.

“What?”

“Leave marks, please,” Harry repeats, his voice shaking. “I don't care who sees them.” 

Luckily, there's still a grain of sanity left in Louis. It's May and Harry could hardly get away with wearing a scarf. Harry untangles his ankles and Louis moves down, until his mouth is on Harry's collarbones. Louis bites down into the taut white skin there, he bites hard and Harry whimpers softly, his hand coming to rest on top of Louis' head.

“Did it hurt?” Louis' not sure which answer he’s seeking. 

“A bit,” Harry says, “Go on, please.”

Louis goes on, nibbling at the skin of Harry's pecs, at his sides. Louis' tongue licks hot stripes over Harry's skin, soothing the red patches and the white indents his teeth leave. All the while, Harry is stifling whimpers, his hand touching Louis' hair, limply, never urging him on or off.

When Louis' head is level with Harry's pink, swollen cock, he starts lapping at it, tasting the pre-come pooled on the tip, wanting, craving more. More of Harry's body, more of his gasps and the soft pants that escape him as Louis blows him. 

Harry produces a bottle of lube from his bedside table, and Louis rips it from his hand. He fingers Harry open, while still sucking him off, and Harry's oddly muted now, unlike when Louis was leaving marks all over his torso. Harry pushes down onto Louis' fingers in rhythm with Louis' mouth lowering on his shaft, Louis keeping his grip on Harry's cock lax, not wanting to tip him over the edge too soon. Louis lets Harry's length slide out of his lips and the sight before him makes his breath catch. Harry's moon-shaped eyes stare back at him, wanton and glazed and Harry's chest is heaving, his mouth slack. There are dark bruises scattered along his lean body.

Louis can't get enough of the view. “You look so good, fuck.” 

Harry keens. He turns his head to one side, burying his face in the pillow. Louis' fingers had stilled their movements into Harry's arse and Harry bucks his hips up, demanding more, urging Louis to keep fingering him. Louis complies, fucking his fingers into Harry again, watching his body twist, his eyes close and his lips press together as he tries to keep every noise in.

Louis removes his fingers and crawls onto Harry's body, trying to spread Harry's thighs more, pressing his thumb into the 'can I stay' tattoo, eliciting a low moan from Harry's throat. There's a strip of condoms on the bedside table. Louis takes one and unrolls it over his erection, his hands unsteady. Harry grabs Louis' neck, tugs him down and kisses him. Louis responds with more biting than kissing, scraping his teeth over Harry's bottom lip, thrusting his tongue into Harry's mouth until Harry's eagerly sucking on it. Louis' hand trails down Harry's body, skipping his cock. He grabs Harry's balls and squeezes lightly, swallowing Harry's sounds in his mouth, and then he hooks two fingers inside Harry's slick hole and curls them up. Harry shudders beneath him.

“Stop teasing me,” Harry sobs. And Louis would, if it wasn't so deliciously easy to torment him. Besides, Louis' not entirely sure that Harry isn’t getting off from the teasing just as much as Louis is. 

Louis lubes himself up and nudges his cock to Harry's entrance. He knows he's still teasing, but he can’t help it when Harry's so pliant and malleable beneath him. Harry's eyes are boring into his, and once again he's there, impatient for Louis' next move, giving Louis the reins completely. It's overwhelming, and prior to tonight Louis would never have imagined that he would enjoy something like this so much, having this power, the feeling of someone at his mercy, shaking apart beneath his every touch. It's so amazing and so, so terrifying at the same time.

He's never felt anything like this before, not with Nick, not with anyone else. When he has sex with Nick, Louis just wants to forget, escape, and it was comforting that he knew Nick's every move, always knowing what to expect. Conversely, every second of it with Harry feels new, breathtaking and scary, like he'd never really done it before tonight.

Louis starts to push in, tantalizingly slowly, one hand on the base of his dick, the other planted on Harry's hip. Harry's biting his lower lip, choking on his moans, his expression caught between pain and pleasure, muscles tensing up. Louis feels high, high on the sight of Harry's face, high on the searing heat that wraps around his cock when Harry clenches around him once, twice, before his body goes slack and he lets out a long shaky breath. Louis fucks into him with long, languorous thrusts, Harry's fingers curled around his biceps. Harry soon grows impatient, whining. Louis tentatively builds up a rhythm, punching broken sobs out of Harry's throat. Louis cups Harry's cheek, touches his forehead, brushes a few untamed tendrils away from Harry's eyes. 

When Harry moans again, louder, Louis shushes him. “I want you to stay silent,” he says, his voice oddly even and foreign to his ears.

“It feels so g-good,” Harry replies, stuttering. “Jesus – I can't.”

Louis smacks his palm against Harry's mouth, muffling his moans. Harry's eyelids droop and his eyes darken. Louis uses his other hand to pin Harry's wrist above his head. He licks at Harry's neck, at his feverish, damp skin, and it just feels so good under Louis' tongue that his hips falter for a second. Harry's free hand claws at Louis' where it's still pressed to his lips, and when Louis removes it Harry is panting furiously. He looks blissed out and he keeps whining, high and breathy.

“Don't stop, please,” Harry begs him, and Louis quickens the pace of his thrusts, growling. His head is spinning. He lets go of Harry’s wrist and uses his hand to jerk Harry off. Without warning, Harry starts to come in his fist, coating his fingers.

As Harry comes, Louis kisses him hard, still pushing inside of him, until Louis is on the cusp of his orgasm. After a few thrusts he's coming too, harder than he'd expected, a blistering heat in his lower stomach. Every muscle in his body stills as he spills into the condom, Harry peppering his face with kisses. Louis' legs give up and he sprawls on top of Harry, his face sunk into the crook of his neck, their skin sticky with sweat and lube. When Louis' heart stops attempting to beat out of his ribcage, he lets out one last ragged breath. 

Harry chuckles softly beneath him. “You ok?” 

“Yes,” Louis has no idea how he's managing to speak after the orgasm he's just had. “That was –” He trails off, because he doesn't know what that was and he feels too exhausted to think about anything now.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, lazily cleaning himself up with a tissue.

Louis barely has the strength to take off the condom, tie it up and throw it on the floor. He slumps down on the queen-sized bed, where Harry hasn't moved of a single inch. It doesn't even look like he could lift a finger, but when Louis lies next to him, gross and sweaty, but not really giving a damn, Harry curls up into his side. Louis' mind shuts off and he falls asleep soon after.

*

Louis wakes up lying on a side, his morning wood slotted snugly between his belly and Harry's buttocks. Not the position he thought he'd find himself in in the near future, but when what occurred the previous night manifests itself in technicolour behind his closed eyelids, his present condition makes much more sense. Louis stirs and when his cock is no longer in contact with Harry's back, Harry turns around, all rumpled curls and sleep warmth. The switch of Louis' mind is off. As long as he's in this bedroom, with a naked Harry beside him, he'll focus only on the here and now.

“You smell,” Harry says, a shy smile surfacing on his lips. Louis feels himself smile in return as he rubs his knuckles at his eyes.

“You smell more,” he grumbles, knowing it's a lie. Harry shuffles closer slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes off Louis'. His hand settles on the flat of Louis' chest, on top of his breastbone. Harry's face hovers over Louis' and he leans forward until their noses are touching.

Louis turns his head to the other side, Harry's kiss landing on the corner of his lips. “Don't. My mouth's gross.” 

“Go brush your teeth then. There's spare toothbrush in the cabinet.”

“But I don't wanna, it's cosy here under the covers.”

“But I want to kiss you,” Harry mumbles, his face a bit pink.

“Don't kiss me on the mouth then,” Louis suggests. Harry arches his eyebrows, as if weighing the option, “but I reckon I'm dirty everywhere else too.” 

“I quite like being dirty,” Harry's blush deepens, and Louis thinks that Harry's cheek is gonna be the death of him. Louis slings an arm around his waist, as Harry trails a line of chaste kisses along Louis' neck. Louis can feel his cock throb between their bodies, and although he feels a bit gross, Harry doesn't seem to mind, and that makes Louis' toes curl.

Harry sneaks his hand between them and palms at Louis' erection, sliding his thumb over the tip, smearing the few drops of precome, even as he's still kissing and suckling lightly at the skin of Louis' neck. Louis' hand reaches the swell of Harry's bum, scratching lightly, and Harry purrs. Their legs intertwine and when their dicks brush together Louis sees white. He slides under the covers until he's level with Harry's cock and he manoeuvres Harry so he's lying flat on his back.

Louis has given head many times in his life, but nothing has ever come close to giving it to Harry. Harry stays perfectly still, straining against his twitching body, hands fisting in the sheets. Louis is not used to not having his throat fucked, but he gags on Harry's length nonetheless, swallowing around the crown of his dick. Harry moans weakly, his eyes jammed shut and his features scrunched up in pleasure.

“Is there anyone else home?” Louis asks, before swiping his tongue from the base of Harry's cock to its tip.

“No, we're alone,” Harry replies with difficulty.

“I wanna hear you come, then.” 

Louis engulfs Harry's dick again in one swift gulp and sucks eagerly, his hands spread on Harry's sides. Harry groans when Louis experimentally drags his teeth across the base. Louis replaces his mouth with his fist and sits on his heels between Harry's thighs, taking a proper look at him for the first time that morning. The pale expanse of his abdomen is littered with bruises; some minuscule wine-coloured dots embroidered on his skin, circled by a purplish halo, some teeth shaped red marks, resembling dawning half moons. 

While still wanking Harry off, Louis places his fingers on top of one of the love bites, and applies the faintest pressure. Louis wasn't expecting anything like that, but Harry's legs thrash while he moans loudly. Louis is stunned. He lets his wrist gain momentum, while surveying Harry's bruises. Louis spots one just under Harry's left nipple that he remembers spending ages on. It's angry red at the edges, dark purple in the centre. Louis presses his index finger on the mark and Harry tosses his head back, crying out as his cock starts to spurt come all over his stomach.

“Holy crap,” Louis is amazed. Harry looks out of it, eyes unfocused. Louis is about to ask him if he's ok when Harry speaks first.

“Could you, erm, here,” Harry croaks, in a small voice, pointing to his open lips. “Please.”

Harry pulls Louis closer by the shoulders, until Louis is straddling his chest. Louis meets Harry's eyes and stifles a gasp. Harry's pupils are dilated, so that the green is almost drowned out in the black, and he looks like he's on drugs. Louis' stomach does a backflip, because he's the one who made Harry look like that. When Louis' cock is hanging in front of Harry's face, Harry surges up, opening his mouth wide. Louis starts to jerk himself off, tapping the head of his dick against Harry's swollen lips. Harry's tongue darts out and a bead of precome drips at its tip. Harry's tensing up his abs as he sloppily mouths at Louis' length, trying to take it in as one of his hands cups Louis' arse, coaxing him forward. Louis lets go of his dick and starts to thrust shallowly into Harry's mouth, while Harry hums and struggles to lift his back from the bed. Louis puts a hand on Harry's nape to support his head and Harry moans on his cock. 

Louis keeps fucking into Harry's mouth, just shy of gagging him, until the tension between his thighs tells him he's about to climax and seconds later he's coming down Harry's throat. Louis lets go of Harry's head, a bit of come dribbling down Harry's chin. Louis's legs are killing him and he feels proper bushed now. He collapses onto the sheets, next to where Harry's chest is heaving.

Harry looks wrecked, his come soiled on his tummy, Louis' on his face. His cheeks are blotched red, his eyelids drooping and his hair in total disarray. But he's smiling, dopily, and Louis madly wishes he could take a picture of him in this moment, because he wants to remember it, wants to remember Harry like this. Sultrily dirty but content, a beatific smile spread across his red-bitten moist lips, forehead glistening with sweat. So Louis stares at Harry, willing the image before him to become burnt onto his retinas.

When he has the ability to form words again, Louis says, “Well, is this dirty enough for your taste?”

Harry blushes uncontrollably. “Yeah, I guess,” he replies, avoiding Louis' gaze, “I stink properly now. I'll go for a shower.” Harry gets up and disappears into the bathroom, walking somehow funny. Louis is in no way ready to get up, so he rolls onto his tummy and wriggles until he's comfortable. He sinks down under the covers and dozes off again. When he wakes up sometime later he feels well rested for the first time in ages, despite the burning in his calves and thighs. He's soft, but there's still a faint ghost of arousal in his lower stomach. 

It's raining, a dull tap-tap on the roof as grey light comes in from the square skylight above Harry's bed. Harry's bedroom is actually quite messy; Louis had expected him to be a neat freak. There are stray CD cases scattered everywhere, some Oasis posters hanging from the wall. The floor is strewn with books. Besides a chest of drawers, the right corner of the room is occupied by a small table with a laptop and a stack of journals perched on top of it. A guitar case leans against one of its legs.

Above Harry's bedside table there's a pinboard with all sorts of stuff attached to it. There are maps, concert tickets, train tickets, random pictures of people Louis has never seen and photographs. Most of the photographs date back to more than three years before, when Harry was still in college. He was shorter and thinner, with a mop of brown curls and a nose definitely too big for his face. In one he looks happy, hugging Niall another depicts the football team from sixth form and if Louis squints he can see himself with his long emo fringe, standing in the centre of the back row.

Among the more recent pictures is one of Harry with two women who must be his sister and mother, and another where Harry and Niall are squashed between two tall guys and Harry looks like the rockstar he wants to be. He's not smiling, more brooding, and he's holding an acoustic guitar against his leg. Louis’ heart clenches.

Louis' snooping is interrupted when Harry pads back into the room, barefoot, wearing only a pair of black boxers, his hair wrapped in a stupid towel turban. He sits next to Louis on the bed, and starts to rub the towel over his wet hair.

“Hi,” Harry says, turning towards Louis, damp shiny waves cascading over his round shoulders.

“Hi,” Louis repeats dully, for lack of a better reply. Harry slides backwards on his bum, flinching, until his back is against the wall. He bends his legs and hugs them to his chest, peering down at Louis. There are dark bruises on the front of his knees.

“Got these the other night at your house,” Harry says, pressing his thumb into his darkened flesh, making it turn white for a second. “Might have made it worse last night when I gave you head in the hallway,” he grins. Louis doesn't reply, too caught up in ogling Harry's body in the dim daylight. Harry's thighs are covered in sparse, light brown hair, which gets thicker on his shins. His torso is curled up so that his tummy looks soft and the roundness of his hips so inviting Louis wouldn't mind digging his teeth into Harry's love handles. So he does that, while Harry positively shrieks.

“Heyyy, that hurt!” Harry squeals, flinching to the other side. But he's grinning.

Louis had never realised Harry smells so good until the moment he inhaled against his smooth skin, fresh from the shower. Sure, he'd sniffed his hair before, and it had smelled sweet from the products he uses, but the natural scent of Harry's skin is otherworldly.

Harry squirms self-consciously and clears his throat. “What are you doing? Have you lost your voice?”

Louis shakes his head. “I think I might need a shower too.”

“Be my guest. There's a clean towel hung behind the door. Feel free to borrow a pair of pants, top drawer,” Harry says, pointing to the dresser.

Louis showers quickly, trying to focus on cleaning himself rather than letting his mind wander, but he massively fails. Louis hasn't felt like this in a very long time. He genuinely feels good, not swarmed up with worry and the desire to be numb and emotionless. He's been running from his mind and his feelings for more than three years now, wanting to feel as little as possible, but now he _wants_ to feel. He wants to remember, not forget. He wants to remember what it feels like to see a smile bloom on Harry's features, the way his breath catches when he hears Harry moan, how Harry had asked him to fuck him, how Harry had treated him, asked him to be taken care of with his eyes. Louis knows he's fucked. 

He has to leave; he can't stay here any longer. He has to go back into the real world, away from Harry, away from his perfect little home and his soft skin and long knotty hair. Away from his reverent yet lewd touches, his spontaneity and questionable sense of humour. 

Louis dresses, putting on Harry's pants and his clothes from the night before. When he's back in Harry's room Harry is not there, but Louis can hear him pottering around downstairs. Louis retrieves his phone and his wallet from the floor, slings on his jacket and walks down the short hallway. He descends the stairs into Harry's large living room. One side, near a door that leads to a balcony, is dominated by a mahogany dining table with a vase of fresh flowers as a centrepiece. On the other side, an ochre sofa neatly subdivides the space, in front of it there's an ottoman of the same colour. Louis' gaze vaguely registers a big telly, a fireplace, pictures hanging from the walls, the absence of carpet in favour of squared wooden floorboards. 

“I'm making breakfast,” Harry calls, chipper. Louis peeks into the small kitchen. Harry's wearing tracksuit bottoms, a band t-shirt and a frilly apron. Louis would be laughing if his stomach weren’t churning with something else right now, something daunting. Harry's face drops when he sees that Louis is all ready to leave. The kettle's on and there are eggs sizzling in a pan on the stove.

“Oh, you're going.” Harry's voice falls flat like the spatula he’s holding in his hand.

“I was going, actually, yes,” Louis says, awkward and tense. He hates to see Harry's disappointment, but knows he can't stay in Harry's house any longer. He wants to leave, wants this sensation gnawing at his stomach to stop. “I need to run some errands,” he lies, “before my siblings get home from school.” It's all lies and Harry knows it, must read it in Louis' stilted tone and stiff stance and guilty eyes.

Harry turns off both the hob and kettle. “Ok, I'll show you out,” he mutters, his expression blank. He takes off the apron, abandoning it on a chair, and Louis withdraws in the living room as Harry pushes past him. Louis follows Harry down a corridor that leads to the main front door. Harry wavers on the spot, not opening the door for Louis. Louis really doesn't know what to do with his hands. Is he supposed to kiss Harry goodbye? Why does he never know the right etiquette? He sometimes kisses Nick goodbye, but he's always done so without giving the action too much thought. Does Harry want to be kissed goodbye? Louis doesn't know, he doesn't know what he's expected to do or if what happened is going to happen again or not. He doesn't know where he and Harry stand.

Of its own accord, Louis' hand reaches for the door handle. His fingers have barely grazed the cool metal when Harry's grabbing his wrist, turning him around and pushing him against the wall. Harry's hands cup Louis' cheeks and he draws near, brushing his forehead to Louis', resting it there. Louis is glued to the spot. Harry's breathing is loud and erratic, and his eyes are closed, as if he's scared of opening them. Louis clasps Harry's middle, even as their bodies are inches apart. Louis doesn't think as he surges up to plant a kiss on Harry's lips. Harry's eyes flutter open, bewildered. Before Louis gives in to the mad instinct that tells him to jump up, hitch his legs around Harry's waist and kiss him senseless, until their lips are raw and stripped to the flesh, Louis takes Harry's hands in his. He dislodges them from his face, steps to the side, mutters 'Bye' and leaves, closing the door behind him, not glancing back.

*

Louis does a splendid job of avoiding Harry for the rest of the week. On Thursday afternoon, Harry texts him to ask if he wants to go see Liam, who's just been discharged. Louis says he can't, because Stan is out of town, and he has to go to The Jockey as soon as the library closes. It's not true; Stan's not really out of town and Louis hasn't even tried to ask him to switch shifts. On Friday night, Zayn's at The Jockey drinking by himself again, but this time Louis doesn't say anything. He's starting to feel like a real hypocrite now because well, he is one. He hasn't told anyone about what happened, nor does he plan to. He's waiting it out, in the stupid hope that everything will be as it was if he just waits out for long enough, if he doesn't see Harry as much as he had been doing.

But that night Harry joins Zayn around closing time. Louis' heart quite literally bounces in his throat when he sees him. Harry's hair is pulled into a bun, his strong jaw on display. He's wearing black skinny jeans, muddy boots and a fucking black sheer shirt. Louis has never seen Harry in a sheer shirt before, and he has a hard time ignoring what that piece of clothing is doing to his crotch. Harry had beamed him a toothy smile when he'd arrived, and Louis’ certain Harry's going to stay until he closes the pub. Louis begs Greg to let him leave early, claiming he feels too ill to remain another hour. He leaves before Zayn or Harry have the chance to say more than a word to him, pretending he doesn't notice the confusion or the hurt on Harry's face. He can't deal with that.

He spends Saturday and Sunday sulking, over what he doesn't know. He's home alone; Ruby and Ian are away on a school trip, and Claire comes home only to sleep, shower and put on tons of make up. Despite the fright she’d given Louis the previous week, she hasn't changed her habits and Louis is quite proud of her; he'd feared she'd coop herself up, afraid to go out as much as before. He'd been very angry with her, but he knows his sister is strong and she can ultimately take care of herself. On Sunday night, Louis phones Liam, since he's keeping up with the illness act, and he actually got Stan to cover for him on both weekend nights. Harry texts him, vague questions about his wellbeing that Louis doesn't directly answer since he can't stand to outright lie to him. Louis is a coward. He's a fucking dipshit coward.

*

On Monday morning, Harry comes into the library to return a book. Louis doesn't think he's ever seen Harry angry, but today his lips are pursed in a stiff line, his tone is sharp and, in general, he looks like someone who's seen their arse. Louis acts like the coward he is, barely able to look him in the eye as he scans the spine of the book. Harry scoffs, indignantly when Louis swerves his question about Louis' illness. Louis can't tell him it was an imaginary ailment, but he can't keep up with the pretense either. Louis' clipped replies have Harry leaving a few minutes later, and Louis has never seen him so vexed. 

As soon as he gets home from work his phone chimes with a text from Harry.

H: _I don't wanna ignore what happened. I think we should talk._

L: _Don't you know that's the scariest thing you could say to someone?_

Harry doesn't reply to that.

 _You could come over tonight_ , Louis types. He hesitates, and then adds an x at the end. His thumb trembles as he hits send, and it's hard to ignore what that's doing to his insides. It's a terrible idea, because he doesn't want to talk about what happened and he knows himself. He knows he's going to try to jump Harry's bones, because that's what Louis is good at. He's good at ignoring the need to talk things through and replacing words with actions, and he's the king of impulsiveness. He can't deny how much he is attracted to Harry, but he isn't blind. What he wants isn't what Harry wants. Harry isn't going to let Louis wait this out, because, unlike him, Harry isn't afraid of confrontation.

Louis knows Weetabix and milk doesn't qualify as a healthy dinner, but he can't be arsed with anything more elaborate when Ruby's not home. She's the one who usually cooks and nags him about his monotonous diet. Louis doesn't even let himself taste his cereal, too on-edge about Harry coming over later. What will he say to Harry? 'I loved having sex with you but that was it, I'm not good at anything else?' or 'Can we go back to only being friends, even though I've seen your face when you come?' Anything he could say sounds trite, or crude, or pointless. It's going to be embarrassing. He also can't be certain of what Harry's going to tell him either. Louis doesn't know, but he wants to make sure that they're on the same wavelength; that what happened can't happen again. 

His considerations are cut short when someone knocks on the front door. Louis glances at the clock, reading only 7pm. He isn't ready to face Harry yet, but he can't chicken out now. What he wasn't anticipating was seeing Nick standing on his front steps. But Nick's there, shifting from foot to foot, expression caught between nervousness and discomfort.

“What are you doing here?” Formalities were never Louis' forte. He grips the doorknob so tightly it'll leave permanent indents in the palm of his hand. Nick is gracefully dressed as usual, his button-up looking pristine and glasses perched high on his nose. But his eyes hold nothing of their usual liveliness, his smile isn't the smile that he reserves for Louis and it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Louis is gaping. Nick ruffles up his unstyled quiff, his shoulders upright. His eyes betray a grimace that threatens to take over his features, but he looks resolute. He begins to ramble, as if he were rehearsing a speech he hasn't quite yet learned by heart, and Louis honestly doesn't understand a single word except 'disappeared', 'lead on', and 'dating'.

“Hey, hey,” Louis holds Nick off with raised hands and Nick shuts his mouth at once, “Why don't you come inside?” He turns to retreat and glances over his shoulder to make sure Nicks is following him. “Do you want some tea?”

Nick is mute now. He closes the door behind him and clutches the hems of his brown leather jacket, not giving any sign of wanting to remove it. Louis puts on the kettle and fishes for the least tea-stained mugs he can find, producing two bags of Earl Grey. Nick's sitting at the kitchen table now, pinching his bottom lip between his index and thumb. He's wordlessly staring at Louis.

“You've been avoiding me,” Nick says and this time it's only that, no heap of words thrown at Louis, and Nick spells every phrase, speaking slowly. “Has something happened? You've been blowing me off for two fucking months.” His traits are stony, but his voice quivers.

“Nick, I'm not avoiding you, I –”

“When I told you I was seeing someone,” Nicks cuts him off, “I did so on the off-chance you'd somehow get jealous, you'd show some kind of reaction. But you looked unruffled, like it didn't even matter. Like if I told you I didn't want to see you anymore you wouldn't have even blinked.”

The kettle pings, but Louis doesn't move to action. 

“I don't know what to say, Nick. We had an agreement.”

“You had an agreement. And in a kind of twisted way I was glad you didn't react how I'd wanted you to. It could've been a chance to ignore you and avoid what I was beginning to feel for you. I could've forgotten you, until we bumped into each other in Manchester in that fucking club. Everything came back and you still looked the same and you still wanted me, sort of.”

A dull pain nudges behind Louis' ribs at the recollection of that night. He knows what it is all too well, knows why the memory of Nick sucking him off in the loo is interwoven with a maze of confusion and self-reproach. He doesn't regret what happened – regrets are something Louis doesn't let himself have – but he prefers not to dwell on the when and why his attitude towards Nick and his relationship with him started to shift. As the seconds stretch on, Louis feels observed. He doesn't have the strength or the will to reply, genuinely at a loss for words. He's sure anything he says will be out of place anyway.

“You disappeared,” Nick says, still sitting, Louis still leaning against the counter. “You ignored me and yet, look at me,” self-loathing and resignation are mingled in Nick's voice and he opens his arms wide, staring himself up and down. “Pining over a boy ten years younger than me. You've become so much more than what I'd bargained for. When we first met I was only guided by want; I couldn't pass up the opportunity of shagging someone like you, young and carefree. I thought I had you all figured out, but when I began to realise you were so much more than what meets the eye, that your bluntness was only a defense mechanism, it was too late already. I'd already fallen head over heels for you.” Nick's words hit a bit too close to home, and Louis feels the unexplainable urge to have a cry. “I know you don't feel the same, I came here with no expectations.” Nick stands up and brushes his palms down his slacks, smoothing out nonexistent creases.

“I had no idea,” Louis is now sure that dull pain is guilt, realisation making it sharper. “I thought we had an agreement, you knew it from the start. You knew it.”

“You're right, Louis. I shouldn't have come here to make a fool of myself.”

“But I care about you. I've been a dickhead.”

“That's not true. But I can't be your friend now, I'm sorry. I need closure, I need to move on.” Nick is smiling but it's a sad smile, his jaw locked as they stare at each other in silence. “I'm going now.”

Louis follows him to the door, opening it. Nick pauses, turning to face him. “I'll miss you.” Louis wants to tell him that they should still be friends, that he will miss Nick too, and that he'd rather Nick was telling him that they'll see each other soon. 

“Can I hug you?” he says instead. 

Nick's eyes are watery. He slouches down and his arms encircle Louis' shoulders. Louis buries his nose into Nick's shirt, breathing in the familiar scent. Their hug lasts a bit too long, and in the end Nick’s the one to put distance between them.

“Goodbye, Louis.” 

When Nick turns to leave, Louis feels cold all over. He had almost forgotten he was expecting Harry's visit, until he lifts his gaze and sees the car parked behind Nick's. Harry gets out of his black Peugeot, sunglasses in his hair and eyebrows knitted together. Louis waves, dumbly, sensing that something's wrong, wondering how long Harry has been watching them. Harry takes an hesitant step, but then he looks between Nick's car and Louis. 

“Sorry, I can't do this,” Harry spits, casting a gaze between Louis and Nick’s retreating form. 

“Harry, wait!” Louis scrambles down the steps as Harry gets into his car and starts the engine. Louis can't do anything but watch him drive off. Nick catches Louis’ gaze as he opens his own car door, and in that moment Louis finds himself longing for what his heart doesn’t want. With wet, frustrated eyes, Louis stares at Nick’s car until it turns off his road for what he expects is the final time.

Louis would be lying if he said he wasn't angry right now, mostly with himself. The nudging guilt is now sharp discomfort, and he retreats inside sullenly. He puts the kettle on again and manages to actually fix himself some tea this time. While he drinks it he stares blankly at the wall, mulling over Nick's words in his head, buying time really, because he knows he will have to text Harry eventually. Will he, though? If Harry storming off like that means he thinks there's something between him and Nick, then maybe he and Harry won't have to talk about what happened between them. It would be a cop out, but Louis' cowardice exults at the prospect. He doesn't have time to linger on this though, because the doorbell is going off again. Maybe Harry changed his mind after all. 

Louis gingerly goes to open the door, bracing himself. Once again, he's not met with whom he was expecting. 

“What happened?” Louis asks. Louise has a funeral face that instantly sends Louis' stomach swooping down to his feet. 

“Where's everyone else?”

“It’s just me.”

They sit down at the kitchen table, Louis jittery and his legs unable to stay still. It feels like a replay of what happened with Nick, only this time there's a more nightmarish edge to it, because Louise's contrite expression hasn't changed a bit.

“How long has it been since you last saw your father?” 

Louis doesn't know. He shakes his head. 

“I have good news and bad news,” Louise says.

“Just fucking talk already, I'm going to lose it.”

“Well, the good news is that I met him earlier and I've never seen him like this since before your mum was here. He was sober, and lucid. He looks healthy.” She stops and inhales deeply, “The bad news is that I met him in Stockport while I was leaving a client's house.” 

“What the fuck was he doing in Stockport?” 

“Do you know who Sasha is?”

“His girlfriend or summat.”

Louise has the face of someone who'd rather be anywhere else but there, reluctance oozing out of her every pore. “I think your father has moved in with her.”

Louis must've gone deaf, he can't possibly have heard right. His whole body stiffens, a lump the size of the Isle of Wight lodging in his throat.

“I'm so sorry Louis. I was mad, told him he's out of his mind, but he didn’t look guilty. He said he felt trapped here, that his kids don't care about him anyway. I know it isn't true.”

“It can't be. His stuff is here.” Louis is crestfallen; he feels like the rug has been yanked from under his feet and the whole world is crashing down over his head.

“I'm so, so sorry,” Louise repeats. Her words feel like an axe chopping at Louis' frozen insides, each blow splintering Louis' heart towards the worst kind of heartbreak. A gut-wrenching grief strikes Louis as he's forced to face yet another confirmation of how much his father doesn't care about them, about him.

“Please go. Leave me alone.” Louis doesn’t want to start crying in front of Louise. He digs his short fingernails into the flesh of his palms, clenching his fists tight until the pain in his hands is so unbearable that the pain in his chest seems less harsh and he's able to breathe again. His eyes aren't clouded anymore and he can see Louise's face twisted in a sympathetic grimace. “Leave me alone.” 

He abruptly stands up as Louise puts on her trench coat. “I'm so sorry, Louis. You've already been through so much. You know I'm here whenever you need me.” Louis' ears are clogged, each sound replaced with a low buzz, Louise's words like a distant droning. As soon as she's out the door, he sprints upstairs and barges into his father's room, everything like a nightmare. 

His father's things are gone. The chest of drawers is empty, except for the maroon sweater Louis had worn when he went to visit little Tim in hospital. The bottles of cheap cologne are gone, his father's aftershave gone, his medications gone, no trace of his shoes. He must've moved his stuff that morning, Louis thinks, or maybe the night before while Louis was at work. The family picture from when Ruby was a baby is still there on the bedside table, and so is Ian's stuff. The only thing of his father's left behind is that maroon wool jumper Louis had started to wear that winter. And Louis can't hold it in anymore, he's reached the point of no return, the point where if he doesn't do something to ease this pain he's either going to die or implode and cave in on himself like a blown-up building.

He goes back downstairs, steps into his tattered Vans and doesn't bother with putting on a jacket. He dashes outside, barely conscious of his movements, his thumping heartbeat like an ear splitting shrill in his skull. He walks briskly in the grim dusk, head bowed. He doesn't know where he's going. And, not long after, it gets dark. 

*

**_{Harry pov}_ **

Harry's main problem is that he's always wanted what he can't have. When he was little, his mum used to tell him he couldn't play with Gemma's dolls and he didn't understand why. He later realised that it wasn't because they were girly, but because they were Gemma's, not Harry's. Harry's deepest wish since he was a kid was to become someone, anyone. It was to have people recognise him on the streets, seek him out to tell him how great he was, appreciating what he did. When it was clear what his talent was, he began trying to excel at it, sure that if he worked hard enough, practiced hard enough, he'd be someone someday. 

He's never felt more anonymous now. Not only because he no longer has a band, or because Niall has dropped from the face of the earth, or because he hasn't been able to write a proper song in more than six months. It's his stubbornness at wanting to get what he can't have that keeps him awake at night sometimes, thinking how he's let things go so wrong. He's alone, the only person he's ever really felt at ease with gone. Yes, he has his dad and his nan, and he really fucking loves them, but he's sure he doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong in West Gorton, never has. He's never felt so lost, and developing emotional connections to people who won't give anything in return is his new specialty. 

Seeing Louis in Nick's arms had been the fucking worst; Harry had tried to let it slide off his shoulders, put on an indifferent front and march towards Louis' front door like he hadn't just witnessed Louis in somebody else's arms. But he'd felt stumped, the words he was supposed to say stuck deep in his throat, everything that had happened between himself and Louis belittled by that single image of Louis hugging Nick. It'd been worse than seeing them in the club, because at that time Harry wasn't yet sure of what he felt, and he couldn't even fathom what Louis thought about him. But now that Harry's had sex with Louis, it's another kettle of fish. 

Harry had been lying around in the attic all evening, looking for a distraction. High Fidelity was on telly but he'd got bored after ten minutes and switched it off; he'd grabbed one of the books gathering dust on his bedside table, flipped through a few pages, but it'd been useless. His mind still wandered to thoughts of Louis.

If there was an ounce of anger in him, it's swept away as soon as Louis shows up at his flat a few hours later. Louis is there, in the flesh, his breathing choppy, as if he’d ran all the way to Harry's. His hair's shaggy and he's never looked so brittle, like if Harry touched him he would explode into grains of dust. He's wearing only a black v-neck shirt, plastered to his slight form, and jeans.

“What the fuck happened?” Harry asks. Louis' liquid eyes are wide and moist and hold Harry's gaze with such intensity Harry's limbs turn to jelly. Louis is looking at him with something akin to hope, and Harry instantly wants to know what's wrong and how to fix it. Louis tumbles down into Harry's arms like a lifeless puppet.

“Harry,” Louis' voice is hoarse. 

“What the fuck happened?” Harry pulls Louis flush against his chest and he can't tell whose heart is beating faster. His arms wound around Louis' frame, Louis' skin warm and damp. Harry tries to steady Louis on his feet.

“What happened?” Harry repeats, peering into Louis' eyes.

“Please, don't make me talk. Please. Just take me to bed,” Louis says, looking small and fragile, and Harry feels weak all over. Louis' arms circle his shoulders and Harry doesn't know where he finds the strength to grip Louis' thighs and lift him up. 

He carries Louis into his bedroom and lowers him onto the unmade bed. Louis is kissing him then, tugging him closer, every movement exuding desperation, need. Harry kisses him back at first and when he tries to pull away, Louis' hand grips his hair, pain and pleasure blending in a flaming ball that settles in Harry's belly.

Louis gets rid of his t-shirt. Harry thumbs at his ribs, fitting his fingers into the ridges, and then lets his fingertips crawl down the hair on Louis' tummy. Louis frantically palms Harry through his tracksuit bottoms, until Harry shimmies out of his pyjamas and pants, which is no easy feat with his mouth still attached to Louis'. Harry's cock springs free and presses into the skin of Louis' stomach and Louis bites down hard, sucking Harry's bottom lip between his teeth, almost drawing blood. Harry detaches his mouth an inch.

“What's going on?” He's searching Louis' gaze, heart thumping and heavy, “Just tell me you're alright.” Louis opens his eyelids but remains silent, his hands fisting in Harry's shirt, whole body tense like a bowstring. 

Louis averts his eyes before he asks, “Do you not want this?” in a squeaky voice, so un-Louis-like Harry wants to protest out loud.

“No. Yes, I want it, of course I want it. But are you ok?” He cups Louis' face, swipes his thumbs over his stubbly cheekbones, silently pleading Louis to look at him.

Louis screws his eyes shut. “Please just fuck me.” 

Louis unbuttons his jeans, takes them off and throws them on the floor and does the same with his socks. Harry fishes for the lube in the drawer, his hands fumbling, fingers shaking with anticipation, arousal and something else that resembles fear. Louis moves until he's almost folded in half, hands on the undersides of his thighs. He moans quietly while Harry opens him up.

“You're good?” Harry asks, the only response he gets being Louis' low groans. He's two fingers in when Louis starts to wiggle.

“I'm ready, c'mon,” he says, clawing at Harry's wrist, trying to push his hand away.

“No.” Louis is upset, and Harry's not going to fuck him without adequate prep. 

Louis scoffs and Harry keeps fucking him with his fingers, until he's up to three and can easily slide them in and out. He puts on a condom and lines up with Louis' hole, pushing at Louis' rim and withdrawing a couple of times.

“Just put it in,” Louis prods.

Harry's fingertips dig into the fleshy part of Louis' hips as he enters Louis' body. Once he's all the way in, Louis clenches around him so tightly Harry can't move. Louis throws his head back, mouth open, not a single sound escaping him. Harry strokes his sides, mouths at his jaw, leaving butterfly kisses on the underside of his chin. But Louis' body is wired, and it takes a lot before Harry can pull out and then push all the way in again. Louis hides his face in Harry's neck, and even though Harry's the one doing the fucking, he's never felt less in control. Louis scratches at his sides, Harry's t-shirt bunching up between them.

“Harder,” Louis breathes, his heels digging into the small of Harry's back. “Come on.” Louis' thumbs are pressed into Harry's biceps, way beyond comfortable. But it's riling Harry up, so he rocks into Louis with more force, skin slapping against skin. He hopes Louis's fingertips will leave bruises on his arms.

Louis asks for more the whole time, he begs, he demands. Harry keeps on bucking his hips into Louis' even when his thighs start to burn. Louis' cock suddenly starts to jerk as he comes untouched, moaning incoherently. Harry kisses him through the aftershocks, engulfing every noise Louis makes. Once his body's stopped jolting, Louis ducks his head down and sobs softly into Harry's t-shirt. 

Harry slips out, his dick still hard and purpled at the tip. He takes off the condom and hurls it onto the floor. Louis' face is buried into the crook of his elbow. He's crying in earnest now, mouth twisted in a grimace as tears roll down the line of his jaw. Harry wants to hold, touch, comfort, but he doesn't know if Louis will let him. Above anything else, he wishes that he could fix every crack in Louis' heart. And he feels like a right knob, naked from the waist down, half hard, with a crying boy in his bed. 

“Louis,” he puts a tentative hand on Louis' shoulder, “I'm right here. I'm not gonna ask you anything, but you know I'm right here.” Harry spots a pack of tissues on his bedside table. “Here.” He nudges Louis' hand and one of Louis' eyes peeks above his arm.

“Don't look at me.” Louis takes the tissue and Harry averts his eyes. He hears Louis blowing his nose. Then he sniffles a bit, inhales a rattled breath and goes quiet. 

Every second that passes is dilated into a million lightyears, until Harry gives into the urge of looking. Louis is lying in a mess of sheets, chest coated with come, face buried in Harry's pillow. Harry kneels beside him, powerless and unable to tear his eyes away. Louis looks terrifyingly beautiful and broken, like an injured lion.

“You didn't come,” Louis croaks, sitting up blearily. 

Harry looks at his limp dick. “That's ok,” he says, because at the moment he couldn't care less about it. “Do you want to take a shower?”

Louis shifts until his feet are planted on the floor. He nods, but doesn't give any sign he's going to move anytime soon. Harry acts blindly, knowing it's hit or miss now, that he'll either get Louis to let him in or he'll just make everything worse. 

He tries to remain calm as he clambers off the bed. His shirt is stretched by Louis' fists and stained with tears. He takes it off and hangs it on a chair. Louis is still sitting on the edge of the bed, gaze downcast. Harry takes Louis' hand and Louis stands up, following Harry to the bathroom.

As soon as they step inside the shower, Louis hugs Harry's waist, his right cheek pressed into Harry's pec. Harry's never thought Louis could be so clingy and quiet. Louis basks in other people's attention, usually by being boisterous or snarky, and he's one of the strongest people Harry's ever met. But then there's this side of him, where he gets sulky and he looks smaller, younger. Harry hasn't seen this part often, and never has it been as prominent as right now. Harry's rib cage caves in a little at the thought of what could've made Louis so upset.

The shower stall is tiny, hardly wide enough to fit two bodies. Harry turns on the water, angling the showerhead away from them until it's warm enough. When they're hit with the hot jet, Louis loosens his arms from Harry's torso.

“Is it too hot?” Harry asks, scrambling to adjust the temperature.

Louis shakes his head no, looking away every time their eyes meet. They're standing naked in the shower stall, a hair's breath away from each other, yet Louis has never felt so distant. 

“D'you want me to wash you?” Harry asks, voice soft but firm. 

He can almost see the tug of war going on in Louis' skull. He reaches out to touch Louis, uncertain if he’ll pull away or not, and when he doesn’t he brushes Louis' elbow, his thumb drawing circles in the thin skin.

“Yeah,” Louis' reply is so feeble Harry hardly hears it above the dull thud of water hitting the plastic walls of the shower stall. He squeezes some drops of body wash onto his palm and turns Louis around, so he doesn't have to shut his eyes closed or dart them away. He lathers up Louis' shoulders and back, stroking the dip just above the curve of his bum. Harry's cock is traitorously fattening up again, but there's little he can do. It's like Louis is a magnetic field and Harry a tiny paper clip, helplessly drawn in by its force. 

Then Harry moves on to Louis' front, hand smoothing down the plane of his abdomen, his breathing stopping when he grazes Louis' semi hard cock. Louis shudders but Harry continues to wash him, fingers skimming his sides and his hipbone. Louis turns around and Harry brings their mouths together in a chaste kiss. He lingers and Louis' tongue traces the shape of Harry's lips before Harry lets it inside and they kiss slowly, naked and wet and slippery. Harry quickly washes himself and then takes his time rinsing Louis' skin of every sud, hands touching him gently everywhere.

When they're both soap free he turns off the shower and gets out first. He offers Louis his bathrobe and settles for one of the big towels. Louis is still pliant and he looks ten times less tense than when he had arrived, but his movements are twitchy and he shies away when Harry reaches for him. Harry watches him disappear into the bedroom. 

Harry's suddenly afraid Louis might bolt and leave like last time. When he steps into his room, Louis is rummaging in his drawers. Harry's heart leaps when he sees Louis is wearing his The Stone Roses shirt that was half draped on Harry's desk. It's the shirt Louis once said he liked. Louis puts on a pair of Harry's pants and lies on the bed with his back turned to Harry. Harry follows suit, lying down inches from Louis' back, suppressing the urge to pull him closer. 

“Is it okay if I stay for a while?” Louis asks.

Harry wants to say, _always, and, please don't leave_. “Of course.” He switches off the light and the room falls into complete darkness. 

Louis shuffles beneath the sheets. He must be facing Harry now, because warm air hits Harry's cheek whenever Louis breathes out. Harry's breath catches when Louis' fingers trace a line along Harry's shoulder, down to his arm until Louis laces their fingers together and brings their hands near his chest. Despite the hot shower, Louis' fingers are cold. Harry waits for Louis' breathing to even out and his heartbeat to decrease, but it never happens. He knows he won't be able to sleep but he's afraid that if he says something he might scare Louis off or make him uncomfortable. After what feels like eons, Louis talks.

“Three years ago my mother left,” he whispers, voice raspy. Harry's eyes blink open but he can't make out anything in the pitch black. “Just like that. Normally, someone would think twice about disappearing into thin air when they have four children, but not her. She willingly left, told her best friend she was too fed up with us.” 

Each muscle in Harry's body is taut, his ears prickling. He waits for Louis to go on, motionless.

“My father didn't take it well – you've seen him. He was depressed even before she left, but then it was sort of a downward spiral. He lost his job. And then the only solution I could think of was to drop out of uni and get a job. I remember all I could think was, I knew this would happen. I knew my life was bound to be shitty. I wasn't surprised; I couldn't believe I'd got to attend uni like every other kid my age. I couldn't believe I was cut out for that kind of life when my family had always been so fucked up. So when everything fell apart, I knew I'd been right all along.”

“I'm so sorry Louis,” Harry says, tightening his grip on Louis' hand.

“I've always known my parents didn't love each other, even when my sisters were little. But I was sure they'd always stay together for us. I already knew back then that my father didn't care about me.”

Louis is silent then. Harry wants to say that no, it can't possibly be.

“He hated me no matter what, so I became the brattiest kid ever,” Louis continues, “he didn't give a fuck, but I was driving my mum crazy every day. And when Ian was ten he was the same, and that was the tipping point for my mum I think.”

The lump in Harry's throat is growing bigger and there's a weird prickling sensation at the back of his eyes. “Louis, it's not your fault she left you.”

“How can you tell? I'm the reason they even got married in the first place. My mum was nineteen when she had me, they didn't want me. They were forced to marry because my grandmother was crazy. She died when I was nine, that was the beginning of the end I think.” Louis falters, trying to stifle a sob. Harry lets go of his hand and pulls him closer, one hand circling around his waist. He's so, so sorry for Louis. He'd do anything he could if that meant taking this pain away from him. “My father left us.” Louis adds in a murmur.

“What?”

“He left us. Louise told me earlier.” Louis is curled up in Harry's arms and his words come out muffled. Harry can feel Louis' tears dampening his t-shirt. “He moved in with Sasha. Maybe he'll look after her kid, even though he could never be a proper dad to us.” 

Louis is shivering and Harry feels utterly helpless. “He's the one who's missing out. You're amazing, Louis. Anyone else would be honoured to call you his son, I promise you.”

“How can you be so sure when I'm shit at keeping people close to me. I'm horrible and everyone leaves me. I can never be what they want me to be.”

“I don't ever want to hear you say something like that again, please.” _You're breaking my heart_ , Harry thinks.

Harry's eyes are welling up and he wants to stop everything and rewind because what Louis said was just plain wrong. Louis is so much more than what he thinks; he’s everything. Harry wishes he could say that now, but he can't. He can only listen and try to soothe him and wipe away Louis' tears with the tip of his thumb, even as his own eyes are brimming. Before he can help it fat drops are rolling down his cheeks, because Louis hurting is making him hurt. He's thankful Louis can't see he's crying too, and that when Harry kisses him their tears mingle. Some strands of hair at the back of Louis' neck are damp and Harry's hands grip him there, pressing Louis' face into his. Harry tastes the salt on his lips and into Louis' mouth. His chest throbs and he feels raw and laid to the bone as he continues to kiss Louis, their lips softly moving together.

They end up with Harry on his back and Louis tucked into his side. Louis' head rests on the juncture between Harry's chest and his shoulder, their legs twined. Louis' arm is draped on Harry's middle. Harry's fingers mindlessly caress through Louis' hair, his other hand wrapped around Louis' bony wrist.

That night Harry tries to memorise everything about Louis, because somehow he knows that this won't last. What they have, whatever that might be, is fleeting and fragile. And Louis is elusive like that; he's like a town filled with mist in an early December morning, where everything is hazy, smoky and milky white, and you can't see past your nose, but if you squint just enough, you can see how beautiful everything is.

Harry is willing to keep squinting for as long as it'll take him to commit every detail to his memory, the rhythm of Louis' breaths as he sleeps and the little puffs of air that sometimes unfurl out of his parted lips. And the way Louis feels like a solid weight beside him, like something tangible and important, meaningful and unique, there, only for Harry's eyes.

Louis is something Harry already misses, even when he's right there, even when they're sharing the same air and they're close, touching everywhere. Harry already missed him while Louis was beneath him, making noises, high and needy, and while he moaned Harry's name and clung to him as he was coming. So he spends infinite minutes observing Louis in the darkness and going over what happened in his head, over and over again.

Some time before they fall asleep, Harry is sure their breathing has synchronised. 

*

When Harry wakes up the first time, Louis is no longer nestled against him. Instead, he's curled up on his side, facing the other way. 

The second time Harry wakes up, there are strips of daylight colouring shapes on the floor. Louis is no longer lying beside him.

A void forms behind Harry's sternum, so sharp Harry thinks his heart might have just walked out on him, leaving a black hole in its place.

Then he notices a slip of paper neatly folded in half resting on the spare pillow. He takes it with shaky hands. He knows Louis must've ripped it from one of his journals, because he recognises the striped paper. There's only one sentence written in a narrow, jerky scrawl. 

_I'm sorry. X_

Harry stares at the piece of paper, mind gone blank. He crushes the paper in his hand and throws his head back on the pillow, a burning sensation at the back of his eyes. He imagines Louis waking up and taking the time to write that simple message before leaving, and it fucking stings. Waking up alone fucking sucks, and all Harry gets is a handwritten note and cold sheets. 

When Harry manages the strength to actually get out of bed, he makes an executive decision. He moves to his tiny bathroom and examines himself in the mirror above the sink. There are dark reddish ovals on his arm, marks left by Louis' fingertips, and other little mouth shaped love bites strewn across his neck and chest. His scalp hurts where Louis had tugged hard on his hair. 

He strips off the bed and finds Louis' shirt crumpled under the spare pillow. He's so ashamed of himself as he buries his nose in the fabric, sniffing. Of course it smells like Louis, like his skin and his body spray and faintly of sweat, and it's not like he was expecting it to hurt any less. If anything, he only feels like crying again. But he can't, he won't start to weep into Louis' fucking t-shirt because he's still got some dignity. Then it hits him that, if Louis left it here, it means he's still wearing Harry's. 

Before reconsidering the option of having a cry, Harry tosses the offending item of clothing on his chair and finishes the task of putting on some clean linens, trying really hard not to sniff the sheets to check is they bear any trace of Louis' scent too. He briefly contemplates throwing Louis' shirt in the laundry basket alongside everything else, but he doesn't. Instead, he sends Louis a text.

_Are you ok?_

Harry's determined not to let the events from the night before interfere with his usual routine. He has breakfast with his nan, he goes for a run, careful to stay away from West Gorton Park altogether; he goes to the supermarket and meticulously buys every item on the list, and he helps his nan cook lunch. Nothing feels out of the ordinary, apart from the fact he's checking his phone every three seconds to see if Louis replied to his texts or if he's ever online on WhatsApp. He's not, the last seen is from last night, and Harry misses him, as stupid as that might sound.

Harry spends the afternoon trying to come up with some decent lyrics for a tune he's had in mind forever. But anything he tries to sing either sounds too cheesy and cliché, or too pathetic. 

Each time the pad of his finger plucks one of the strings it reminds him of Louis' skin, taut and splintery, almost electric, as if beneath it Louis was made of wires and cables, things not fit to be exposed to the outside world. Less than an hour later, he's already given up. He starts to strum mindlessly, humming Oasis songs all mashed up together, mind inevitably drifting, wondering why Louis left before he woke up.

That night he leaves for The Jockey with no idea of what to expect. He finds Zayn there, alone at a table far from the bar, and it's strange but suits Harry just fine for the time being. Louis just nods when he sees him, and Harry replies with a perfunctory smile. Even as Harry and Zayn talk about random, mundane topics, Harry keeps throwing glances to the bar and observing Louis work from the corner of his eye.

Louis looks normal, nothing in his appearance is out of the ordinary, nothing of what Harry's witnessed last night is left. His eyes only hold a bit of the puffiness one gets the day after a good cry and Harry can see that Louis' armour is back on; he doesn't know if that's a good or a bad sign. 

Harry hasn't ordered anything and he turns to stare at Zayn's pint. Zayn is looking at him with a quirk in his eyebrows.

“Sorry. You were saying?” Harry asks.

“Am I missing something?” Zayn tilts his head towards the bar, the implication clear.

“Is it that obvious?” Harry sighs, and he wants to smile sheepishly because he feels like a teenager with a crush. But things aren't really looking up so he doesn't.

“Yes, you've been staring at him with a weird expression.”

“He was – last night. He was upset.” Harry steals a sip of Zayn's beer to keep himself from starting to recount every detail of what happened the previous night.

“I'm sure I've seen him worse,” Zayn deadpans, glancing towards the bar. 

Louis is talking to a pub regular, not paying them any attention. He's smiling in a way that looks genuine and warm, but Harry has learnt that Louis often puts on a front when he works, especially when he's at the library. He's not faking any emotion, he's simply making sure nothing of what might worry him is visible from an outsider's perspective.

“When his mum left?” Zayn's face immediately turns serious and Harry feels a tug in his chest.

“He's told you about his mum?” Zayn's eyes widen and he looks at Louis again.

“You're surprised.” Harry notes.

“Yes, he can be very closed off.” 

“That's an understatement,” Harry chuckles, “Sometimes I think the only way I could get into his head is if I used a can opener.”

“I know it too well, trust me. Sometimes it's so difficult to be his best friend, I wish I could've let him go and for it not to hurt so much.” 

“What d'you mean?”

Zayn's face darkens, he looks down at his half-finished pint, his long eyelashes are like curtains on hooded eyes, and there's wistfulness playing on his features. 

“After his mum left, he –” Zayn trails off, eyebrows twitching once before he starts again, “I've never seen him like that before. It was scary, he never smiled and he had this constant scowl to his face. Sometimes I would catch him staring but I knew he wasn’t really seeing me, you know? And he didn't even tell me himself, I had to know it from Liam.”

“At the time, me and Liam weren't even mates, so you can imagine how it felt knowing a thing like that from someone else. I had some shit going on for myself, and it hurt. We started to avoid each other, and the more time passed, the more the crack between us just got deeper. We literally had no idea what to say to each other, it was absurd. I was furious at him.”

“You stopped talking?” Harry can't fathom Louis not being friends with Zayn, much like how once he couldn't have fathomed spending six months without the faintest idea of Niall's whereabouts. 

“He spent all of his time with Liam and people from uni he doesn't see anymore, and I was getting stoned with Aiden and his mates every other night. It felt like a proper break up. The few times we met on the street we said hi and made small talk, like virtual strangers.” Zayn grimaces, pressing his lips together “I get chills just thinking about it now.” 

At first Harry opens his mouth to speak, but he can't find anything to say. “Wow. I honestly can't imagine that,” he settles for in the end, “You look like proper best mates now.”

“Right now, yes. But we've been through many rough patches in the past, that episode being the worst. And it's all up to him if we're here now, because he made the first step and everything. After almost a year like that I was missing him so much. He was here, and I was here, but I felt like there was a wound that couldn't possibly heal, that our friendship could never recover. Every time I wanted to just man up and go talk to him I'd chicken out.” Zayn's regret seeps through his words so clearly Harry can almost picture them; Louis and Zayn still both living in Chatsworth, a place so small where everyone knows everything about everyone, yet so far away from each other at the same time.

“Then one day in November,” Zayn goes on, “he just texted me saying that he wanted to talk to me, and that was it. We talked all night and we apologised and admitted we'd both been total knobs and everything fell into place like nothing had ever happened. We got drunk and cried on each other's shoulders.” The corners of Zayn's lips curve upwards and there's a nostalgic glint in his eyes. “I won't ever let anything like that happen again”

Harry squirms in his seat uncomfortably, putting his hands beneath his thighs. Before he can voice what's on the tip of his tongue, Zayn beats him to it.

“I know about his dad. I spoke to him before his shift started. And he told me he spent the night at your flat.” Zayn's face is calm and earnest now, and Harry self-consciously casts another look in Louis' direction. He can't spot him at the bar, nor at any of the tables.

“What did he tell you?” Harry asks, both fearing and eager for Zayn's response.

“Not much about you. I don't know what's going on between you two, but he cares about you. You just have to give him space I guess. He's got a lot going on.”

“I know, but I want to be there for him, too,” Harry says, since he might as well be frank.

“He easily feels suffocated,” Zayn explains, “He wants to feel like he's making all the calls himself, that he's completely independent. It's not about you, so don't take it personally. Louis is like this with everyone.”

As if on cue, Louis appears at Zayn's side in that moment. He smells of cigarette smoke and the neck of his plain black t-shirt is a bit stretched, his collarbones peeking out. He takes a chair and turns it around it so its back rests against the side of their table. He sits backwards, his elbows on the table and his face propped on his hands. 

“You were talking about me, I heard you say my name.” He's pointing an accusatory finger towards Zayn's face, plainly avoiding looking Harry's way.

“We were just saying how good you look tonight,” Zayn smirks, flashing Harry a grin. Harry feels his face heat up, but he smiles when Louis finally locks eyes with him.

“I have to use the loo,” Zayn says. He stands up and Louis and Harry are left alone, the pub almost empty now.

“How are you?” Harry asks, refraining from touching Louis. He feels his hand twitch with the urge to pat Louis' shoulder, or tuck the long end of his fringe to a side. 

“I'm fine,” Louis says in a low voice, “I didn't reply to your text ‘cause I've been busy today. I'm alright.”

Harry wants to tell him to stop pretending, that he can't forget how he's seen him last night, how he has held him while he was shaking with sobs. But Louis' eyes are hard, almost challenging.

“I wish you were there when I woke up.” The words make Louis wince, and there's a twisted part in Harry's brain that is happy at the prospect of Louis feeling a bit guilty. “It's ok,” he hurries to add. “You left me a message.”

Louis scratches the side of his face and then stares at his bitten fingernails. “I don't know what to say. I'm sorry about last night.”

“It's ok,” Harry repeats, “You don't have to be sorry.”

“No, I do.” Louis is shaking his head.

Harry purses his lips. “Why?” 

“I was such a crybaby last night.” Louis looks humiliated, “I shouldn't have barged into your house like that and asked you to – you didn't have to take care of me.”

“No, Louis, you don't understand,” Harry gives in and puts his hand on Louis' knee, pretending he doesn't notice the way it trembles for a split second under his fingers. “I'm here for you.”

“You don't have to be, I'm fine.” 

“You're not. I know you're not fine.”

“Well there's nothing either of us can do,” Louis mutters, cold, glancing down at Harry's hand on his leg. “I've got this under control. As long as the social services don't visit us, we're gonna be fine.”

Harry removes his hand, embarrassed. Louis' sudden coldness is like a blade stabbing through his ribs, the confirmation that what Harry thought, hoped, would be there after Louis had opened up to him, isn't in fact there. Zayn returns in that moment.

“I'm gonna call it a night, lads.” Zayn gives Harry a pointed look and then says his goodbyes.

Louis stands up and says he has to get back to work. Harry's left alone in front of an empty glass, utterly stumped. He has more doubts now than those he had arrived with, and the little, petty voice in his head, telling him Louis doesn't want him, is louder than ever.

He leaves The Jockey. The area outside is empty and the streetlamp near the entrance must be broken, because the portion of pavement in front of the pub is hidden amongst the shadows. Harry sits down on the kerb and extracts his tobacco bag from the pocket of his leather jacket. He rolls a cigarette but it turns out all lumpy. Harry curses under his breath. He doesn't understand why sometimes he rolls perfect cigs that look straight out of a factory and sometimes he ends up with flaccid stumps. He hastily rolls another one only to realise he doesn't have a lighter.

When he catches the sound of Louis closing the door of the pub he stands up.

“Have you got a lighter on you?” Harry hears his own voice, disembodied, echoing in the dead of the night. 

Louis gasps, startled. “Jesus! I thought you'd left.”

Harry squints to properly make out how Louis looks in the darkness. He's wearing a soft jumper over his t-shirt now, a pair of ripped jeans, worn vans. Maybe because he can't really see his face, Harry feels bolder, like he could say things he would never dare to utter in the daylight.

Harry quickly shuts his eyes, then opens them and blurts, “Last night was the last time, wasn't it.” It doesn't really come out as a question.

“Harry, please.” Louis cringes. “I told you I'm sorry.” 

“Is that all you can come up with after you came to me and begged me to fuck you?” Harry hisses, fighting off the wetness in his eyes. He doesn't care if he has to spell it all out for Louis, doesn't care if he sounds petulant. “What makes you think it's okay for you to act like this and get away with it? You've treated me like shit ever since I can remember. Why? I wanna know why.”

“This has nothing to do with how it was in school, Harry.” Louis blinks. Harry takes a few steps towards him.

“Then explain,” Harry says tartly. “What am I to you?” he asks, index pointing to his own chest.

“Don't fucking do this to me now,” Louis pleads, and he looks like he's about to break. “I can't, you know I can't. You want something different. I can't be what you want me to be.”

Harry's heart capsized and he tucks his head to his sore chest. Tears start falling to his cheeks, leaving blazing hot trails of shame on his skin. He can hear Louis sucking in a shuddery breath.

“What am I supposed to say?” Harry slurs, and when he looks up Louis' eyes are glazed over and the wispy ends of his lashes quiver.

“I don't know. Can't you see how fucked up I am?” Louis hugs his middle like he's holding himself together by bits and pieces. He crouches down, back sliding along the grey spongy wall of the pub building. Harry's at his side.

“I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry,” Louis sobs, head thrown down between his knees. Harry's crying too, even as he kneels in front of Louis and cradles him to his chest. Harry's head whirls and he knows everything would've been ten times easier if he hadn't let himself fall for Louis. Every constant he had in his life is gone, and this new, gaping wound of what he feels for Louis has taken the place of everything else. 

Louis is still chanting 'I'm sorry's against Harry's tears slicked neck, and Harry kisses the top of his head, willing the both of them to calm down, willing the knife-edged twinge of guilt and confusion in his gut to not swallow him whole. After a few minutes, or maybe hours, Louis stops crying. Harry's throat is incredibly sore, a new, slimy awareness snugly lodged in his chest. 

He'd never meant for Louis to break him like that. He'd never meant for any of this to happen, couldn't have dreamt in his wildest dreams of one day being so smitten for Louis Tomlinson. The same Louis Tomlinson who had been caught smoking in the school yard so many times Harry was surprised he'd never been suspended, the Louis Tomlinson that once tripped him on the footie field during PE so unexpectedly Harry had shrieked like a little girl, the Louis Tomlinson who has always treated him like he was a piece of dirt he had scrubbed from the bottom of his checkered Vans, and all for no reason whatsoever.

“You're gonna leave me too now,” Louis whispers, his cold fingers splayed on the side of Harry's neck. “Like everyone else. Like Nick.”

Harry swallows dryly. “I need some time, Lou.” He feels Louis going stiff in his arms. Louis untagles from Harry's embrace and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Harry hears his spine click.

“Ok.” The icy tone is back. Louis carefully rises to his feet. “I get it, you have every right to be mad at me.”

“I'm not –” Harry stands up on wonky legs, “I just can't –” Harry doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to say, _everytime I see you I feel my heart shrink_ without making an even bigger fool of himself.

“I get it,” Louis repeats, with resignation behind his teeth. “I can't seem to get anything done properly,” he chuckles bitterly. He lingers on the spot, while Harry's shoes are anchored to the tarmac beneath him, and he can't tear his gaze away from Louis' red-rimmed eyes. Louis' voice quivers when he says, “Goodbye, Harry.”

Harry throws the unlit cigarette onto the pavement and gets into his car, slamming the door shut. Anger soon wanes, making room for hot white, burning hurt that eats him alive from the inside. When he gets home he topples onto his bed and wishes he could sleep until all the pain is gone. 

*

June hits the city bringing an unusual, sweltering humidity. Harry's nan bemoans everyday the ozone hole as the cause of the progressive global warming, predicting impending catastrophes. Harry once spent two weeks during summer break in Malta with Niall, and what to an Englishman feels like doom in the form of an incredible heat wave, is nothing compared to the torridness of a Maltese August. Harry remembers shirts soaked with fresh sweat, damp hair curlier than ever and Niall's red sunburned skin when one night the AC broke and Niall's Irish blood was boiling with hyperthermia. 

Harry's consciously playing for time now, harboring heartbreak like it's normalcy, letting the days pass and merge into one another, until his brain can't tell a Tuesday from a Saturday. His musical and lyrical skills are still missing and nowhere to be found, his guitar abandoned in the darkest corner of his room where, caught in an anger outburst, he has tossed Louis' shirt as well. His only consolation is seeing his father getting better everyday, to the point where he insists on driving himself to dialysis. 

So he doesn't know if today is a Sunday or a Wednesday. He's idling in his bed with his laptop, watching old episodes of Grey's Anatomy and pretending everything is fine. His phone starts to ring and he accepts the call with a dull 'Hello', not paying particular attention to the unknown number flashing on the screen.

An unsure "Harry?" comes out of the speaker. His heartbeat doubles to an inhumane speed. He knows that voice. He readily sits up and grips his thigh, fingers digging into his flesh.

“Where are you?” he asks. On the other side of the line Niall lets out a startled gasp.

“I just landed in Manchester. I'm at the airport." There's a pause and Harry's afraid the line cut out, but then Niall says, "I know I’ve been a dick. Fucking shit. I'm so sorry. Tell me right now if you hate me and you never wanna see me again."

“Fuck. Of course I wanna see you, Niall." Harry lets out a watery laugh and resolutely stands up, looking for his weathered boots. "Are you all right?"

"I'm ok, yeah. And you? Where are you?" Niall asks, tone infinitely lighter. He sounds more like himself now.

"At me dad's. I'll come pick you up."

Relief bubbles in Harry's chest as he drives through the light traffic, at times hitting him so hard he almost feels dizzy with it. He doesn't remember the last time he felt like this. He leaves his car in the parking lot and jogs to the Terminal 1 Arrivals. He spots Niall sitting on his suitcase before Niall sees him. His hair's still dyed blonde like when Harry last saw him, but the brown roots are showing and it's unstyled, longer, swept into a sideways fringe on Niall's forehead. Niall springs to his feet when he sees Harry and their bodies crash together. Harry hugs his skinny shoulders tight and Niall smells of airplane, smoke and distinctly of home.

There's a lightness in Harry's heart that wasn't there before. They make their way into the city centre, platitudes knocking back and forth between them. They grab a kebab for lunch and Niall's face still looks the same, his freckles spidery on his milky skin, his chin dimpled. He looks different though, older. His trademark impish smile curls up his lips, and he unrepentantly teases Harry when he trips all over his words even as he speaks as slowly as always.

Niall makes himself at home in Harry's flat, in accordance with an unspoken agreement between them. Niall can't go back to Chatsworth, Harry refrains from asking him if he's going to talk to his parents at all. He makes a trip downstairs to grab beers, Maltesers and crisps. They settle on the old rusty sun loungers on Harry's balcony, the sun still high in the clear sky. When they're both nursing a Stella and smoking, eyes reduced to slits in the beaming light, the million questions Harry had been keeping at bay resurface.

"Are you really alright?" Harry asks. Niall observes him, unblinking, for a long a second.

"I guess I owe you an explanation. And an apology."

Harry feels his head shaking before Niall's closed his mouth again. "I just wanna know where you've been."

*

When Niall left London, he flew to Belfast where some of his father's relatives live, a part of the family that he had hardly ever seen since he was born. Reassured that they were never close with Niall's father, due to his illegal activities, Niall was positive no one would learn he was there, having severed all ties with his parents and brothers. His decision to keep his whereabouts secret from Greg and Harry too had been necessary, since he knew his father wouldn't have hesitated to make their lives a living hell. He was enraged when Harry told him about the twenty-four-hour abduction. 

There also was a spiritual side to it, namely Niall's desire to reconnect with his Irish roots, visit the places where his parents had grown up, spend some time alone to reconsider his life choices. He needed to pretend he was someone else for a while, find himself again. The deep fucker.

The gloominess of Belfast in winter had soon bored Niall, and after three weeks he was on a coach to Dublin, his baggage little more than a few clothes, his guitar and a small wad of cash, courtesy of his great uncle who had always had a soft spot for the musically talented nephew he'd never had the chance to meet. Niall had lodged at a long stay hostel in Ballsbridge at first, while he started to look for a waiting job. After three weeks he hadn't found anything interesting but he'd met a girl in a pub and joined a group of street performers who taught him where he could strum away on his guitar without getting in trouble with the police.

The girl's name was Hannah, born in Galway, an NCI student who lived in a flat just outside of campus and knew someone who was good friends with the lead of a band who had toured with Kodaline when they still went by the name 21 Demands. While Niall kipped on Hannah's settee he made a bit of money on the street when the weather permitted, at the same time going to loads of gigs while networking with people whose names meant something in the local music scene. _I met Steve fucking Garrigan, Harreh_. So there was that, and Harry was astonished.

Long story short, Niall had resolved to have someone listen to his and Harry's songs, left Dublin as soon as he managed to get in touch with his cousin Bressie, travelled south to stay with him in Kilkenny; after a fortnight of too much craft beer, visits to castles and shenanigans, almost broke, he decided it was time to come back.

The slice of floor between their chairs is now littered with crumpled beer cans, empty bags of Maltesers and bacon crisps, the marble ashtray on the accent table is filled with cigarette stubs and Harry's brain is still trying to process all that new info. It's considerably late, the sun almost sunk below the horizon and the sky paling lavender. Harry meditates on Niall's words.

"Sounds like it was a proper adventure," Harry muses, adjusting his sunglasses on his nose. "Did you ever miss home?"

"You mean Chatsworth? No." Niall's rolling a cigarette with nimble fingers and his forehead scrunched up in concentration. "I only missed you and me mum a bit. Greg and Rebecca, too. I'm glad you were there when Tim was born."

"Are you excited to meet him?" Harry asks, feeling his phone vibrating with a message against his leg.

"Very," Niall says, mouth stretched in a wide grin, "I can't wait but I don't want anyone else to see me yet. We're going tomorrow morning yeah? I don't wanna go tonight. I've already told Greg."

"Alright, Ni." Harry's more than fine with staying in that night. In the past two weeks he's tried to hang out less at The Jockey, since he doesn't know how to act around Louis anymore. He wants them to be ok, wants to be his friend, but the wound is still fresh and he can't put up with Louis' tepid behaviour and the weird resentful looks he sometimes sends Harry's way.

"So you're completely over that massive dickhead?" Niall asks, and for a second Harry is confused, before he realises Niall's talking about Matt.

"Yeah, I told you I am." Harry's told Niall what happened with Louis in the most detached way he could manage.

"And you hooked up with Louis Tomlinson, right?" Niall asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Harry mumbles, biting the inside of his cheek, "I mean, I like him, Niall. You know me; I'm not the biggest fan of random hook ups. But he's apparently able to have sex with someone multiple times without developing any feelings."

"Everyone's different, Harry. I can't even wrap my head around the fact you don't hate him anymore." Niall regards him with suspicion. "That's preposterous." 

Harry shrugs. "We were kids, Niall. We were both young and stupid, I never really hated him."

"Oh, so you're all grown up now," Niall mocks him. "Actually, I haven't seen him or anyone else from school in ages. We should have a big reunion one of these days." Niall looks genuinely thrilled by the idea. "Did you keep in touch with anyone from London?"

Harry shakes his head. He hasn't spoken to his former bandmates since he left London, and most of the people they hung out with were just that. People with whom they went clubbing or to parties or the occasional dinner out; mostly, friends of convenience.

"You were too busy pining over Tomlinson," Niall teases.

"Yeah, right." Harry says non-committedly. They lapse into a lazy silence.

The truth is, it's awkward now. He can hardly look Louis in the eye, because he feels rejected and that has the power to suck out of him all of his natural confidence. He knows he should be capable of acting in a natural manner around him, and sometimes he succeeds, but it's still a thorny situation for him. He's sad that things between them have gone awry so fast since Louis basically friend-zoned him. 

Harry feels the cheap beer swimming in his stomach and behind the shades lenses his vision is a bit blurred. For a while they smoke in silence, watching the sky changing from light purple to blue. Harry takes off his sunglasses and rubs the pads of his index finger and thumb between the ridge of his nose and the corner of his eyes. He sets the sunglasses on the table and closes his eyes for a moment, feeling himself doze off.

He wakes up befuddled, a sour taste in his mouth. The sky is black and starless and he hears Niall belch.

"Sorry. You were sleeping with your mouth open," Niall chuckles. "Do you have any Alka Seltzer? Flying fucks up with my stomach."

They get inside and Harry checks his phone, seeing it's Liam wondering where the hell he's been lately. It's actually been a while since he's last seen him.

H: _Sorry, I've been busy. How you doing?_

Li: _Great mate. I'm gonna move to Newcastle on Sunday. So we're gonna celebrate on Saturday night, you have to be there._

H: _Ok. Where?_

Li: _My house. I'll text you the details soon. X_

"Saturday night we're going to see the others," Harry informs Niall, who's changing into a pair of joggers. 

Harry retrieves two tablets of antiacid from the bathroom cabinet. Niall insists on sleeping on the settee in the lounge, despite Harry's protests. 

Harry wakes up in the middle of the night and senses that there's another weight on the mattress. For a fleeting moment, he thinks about Louis, and he's vaguely aware that he might've been dreaming about him. Then he remembers that Niall's back; Niall's climbed into bed with him and he feels better than he has felt in months.

*

In the morning they visit Rebecca and Tim. Niall's eyes are sparkling the whole time. Tim is now a beautiful, healthy three months old baby. Rebecca is still losing weight, considering she had to resolve to using formula milk after only one month of breastfeeding. Greg was ecstatic when he saw Niall and Harry and Niall's smile never faltered for the two hours they spent there before he had to open the Jockey.

Later that afternoon, Niall and Harry are sitting in Harry's lounge, Harry's guitar abandoned on the table. Niall didn't believe Harry when he said he hasn't been able to write a complete song in the six months they've been apart. Now, he demands to see the contents of Harry's journal and Harry reluctantly complies. Harry wasn't lying, because there isn't a completed song in there, only disorganised sentences and incomplete verses. He observes Niall's expression morphing from neutrality to something else.

"There's a lot of abstract doodles in here," Niall comments.

"Yeah,"

"And stray lines." Niall seems to be pondering intensely before he asks, "Harry are you sure you still ain't over that jerk Matt?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Those lines are pretty sappy. 'I can't breathe the same when you're not with me', 'I'll give up everything if you ask me to', 'You're something I should've never found', 'You don't love me the way I love you'. That's pretty self explanatory.”

"You know I'm a sap, Niall, and I like being over dramatic. Usually, you're there to tone down the cheesiest lines, but you weren't there mate.”

"If you're trying to guilt trip me you're nailing it,” Niall sighs.

"No, I mean, it hasn't been the same without you.”

Niall's face darkens and he plops down on Harry's settee with lines creasing his forehead. He keeps leafing through the pages of Harry's journal, lingering in some parts, reading through the thoughtless lyrics Harry had put together while trying not to outright wax poetics about Louis' eyes. Harry's squirming and he's honestly a little bit embarrassed; but Niall's pensiveness is starting to irk him.

"What's wrong? I know they're shit –"

"It's not that," Niall cuts him off. He closes the journal and puts it on the coffee table. "I don't think I'll be able to stay here for long," he starts, scratching the light stubble on his chin.

"Yeah, I figured," Harry replies blankly.

"Yeah, that's for sure. What are you doing here, Harry? You've been here six months."

"My dad was ill." Harry drags the coffee table from the sofa and sits on it, so that he's facing Niall.

"Exactly. He's better now, yeah?"

Harry nods.

"So there's no real reason why you should remain in Manchester a minute longer." The intonation isn't that of a question, but Niall goes on before Harry can interject. "This place is the same as it was three years ago, nothing's changed. It's toxic, Harry. Chatsworth is toxic, I know it first hand. And you've spent too much time there, and you've even found another Matt in the meantime.”

"Niall! Louis isn't like Matt," Harry objects. "He doesn't have a secret wife for a starters."

"Yeah but he doesn't want you Harry, from what you’ve told me. Am I wrong?" Niall asks, dispassionate.

Harry can't deny that. He stares at the door to the balcony. Beyond the glass Manchester extends in all its monotonous greyness, low clouds obscuring the sun of yet another unusually hot June afternoon. There's nothing _really_ keeping him here, the reasons why he wants to leave are the exact same reasons that made him move to London three years before. When Niall hasn't replied yet, Harry tears his gaze away from the glass door and fixes it on Niall's unsmiling face.

"Is this the real reason why you're back? To ask me to come with you?" It's not an accusation. Harry's honestly curious.

"Yeah," Niall admits. "It just didn't feel right to be there without you. And I think I'm done with running away, because I've found a place where I want to stay. Going so long without letting you know where I was was such a stupid thing to do. I'm sorry." Niall's eyes are glossy and his words ooze regret.

"I was sick with worry, Niall." Harry picks up his journal, his fingers skimming the worn leather cover. "I'm not gonna lie, I hated you for a while. And I was hurt and swallowed by guilt."

"I'm sorry," Niall answers, crestfallen.

"I'm sorry too." Harry's hand reaches for Niall's forearm. "Let's stop apologising, yeah?" Harry proposes. He's so sick of apologising, he just wants to enjoy having his best friend back. 

"Yeah, you're right." Niall straightens his back and fixes his eyes on Harry's with intent. "So, what do you think? I have contacts back in Dublin. I know lots of people and we can easily find a drummer. I already know a bassist who's looking for a band, he's more than decent." Niall falls silent for a second, holding his breath. In his eye there's a yearning glint Harry's never seen before. "We can make it this time, Harry."

"We already got our hopes up last time," Harry doesn't want to come across as a buzzkill, but they have to be realistic. "And that didn't end well," he concludes.

"I know," Niall replies with an eye-roll, "That's the reason why I was so under the weather before I decided to leave. Believe me, I know that type of soul-crushing disappointment, but it made me even more determined than before."

Harry wants to say, ‘Yes, of course I wanna leave with you’. Instead, he says, "Can I think about it for a few days at least?"

"Ok," Niall concedes, "it's only fair. I've disappeared for months, and now I'm asking you to leave everything again and follow me abroad. It's understandable that you wanna think about it. There's no rush."

Harry nods briefly and he's a bit disorientated, his knees getting weak at the idea of leaving Manchester again so soon. Fear of an unknown future unfurls in his stomach and in his limbs and he feels tired all of a sudden. He and Niall try to finish one of Harry's songs for the rest of the afternoon, but even their conjoined effort proves futile. Maybe that's because Harry's mind is already a hundred miles away.

*

Harry doesn't get a wink of sleep that night; too many thoughts keeping him awake. He fantasises about what could happen if he followed Niall to Ireland. They could form a new band; try to build the life they have always wanted. With his dad completely recovered, there's nothing holding him back in Manchester. But he knows if it weren't for Louis he'd have said yes right away, he wouldn't have had to think about it twice. 

Harry tosses and turns and kicks at the suffocating cotton of the sheets, feeling his skin getting sticky with sweat. He hops out of bed and goes out onto the balcony. From up there the city is unnaturally silent and the sky clear and illuminated by a sliver of moon. He savours the light breeze that makes the hair on his arms bristle and goosebumps erupt on his bare shoulders. He falls asleep curled on one of the sun loungers. 

When he wakes up there's an afghan draped over his naked torso and Niall has left him a cup on the accent table, the tea still acceptably hot.

*

Louis' blasé veneer is peeving him to no end. Harry tries to keep to himself, chattering with Liam about the details of the firefighter training. It's like Louis is shielding himself from having to even make eye contact with him, let alone exchange a few words.

Ever since he and Niall had arrived, Louis’ acted like he's surgically attached to Zayn's hip. He'd looked at Niall like he was seeing a ghost, even though Harry had mentioned in passing to Liam that he was bringing him to his barbecue. Liam evidently didn't report the news, but Louis had soon concealed his surprise behind an indifferent expression. 

It's only the five of them. Zayn and Louis evaporated inside to, allegedly, chop the vegetables although Harry suspects they could be playing Fifa or rolling a spliff on Liam's bed, purely out of spite. 

In Liam's back garden there's a tall stone grill, not one of those lanky iron barbecues that look like they're kept together only by sheer force of will. And there's a fire extinguisher in the grass next to the base of the grill, obviously. Harry and Niall observe Liam while he dumps a load of charcoal on the stone ledge, slots the iron grill in place and lights the flame. 

The late afternoon smells of burnt paper and flowers, the purple and white peonies Liam's mum nurses sticking out in a corner of the garden. While Liam scrapes the food residue from the grill, Harry sees Zayn and Louis setting the table in the verandah with plastic plates and cutlery. Liam instructs Niall to bring the hamburgers and chicken legs first. They're going to cook the pork chops last since Zayn can't eat them. 

"So kind of you," Louis sniggers, popping out at Liam's side with a beer in his hand. Liam colours the tiniest bit.

"I'm just trying to be a good host," he says.

"How's Sophia?" Harry asks.

"Actually, we, erm," Liam's cheeks redden and that's only partially ascribable to the heat of the grill. "We broke up."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Harry hurries to say. Louis stares at him for a second and scoffs. That's the first time he's acknowledges Harry's presence there. Harry doesn't feel like asking Liam what happened.

"You don't look too sorry mate," Niall points out, taking the beer Louis' offering him. 

"I'm not," Liam says. "Does anyone want wine? I have white wine in the fridge."

Harry looks at his empty hands and then at Niall, Zayn and Louis who are all sipping from cans of beer. "I guess I'll go and get it, Li." 

When he steps out of the sliding glass door to the garden with the cool bottle of wine in his hand, Liam and Zayn are standing closely side by side at the grill. Niall and Louis are sitting at the table, seemingly deep in conversation. Harry surreptitiously clears his throat and they fall silent.

"What are you talking about?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

"I was just telling Louis about Dublin," Niall replies with an easy smile. Louis is fidgeting with his fringe, one hand tucked into the sleeve of his sweater. Harry's heart seizes and for a cumbersome second he thinks Niall's telling him that they are planning on going there together. It can't be, he reasons, and wills himself to calm down. He uncorks the bottle and pours a glass for himself.

Zayn struts to the table in that moment, perilously balancing in his hands two large trays of cooked meat. Harry takes one of them before it slides out of Zayn's grasp, and sets it at the centre of the table. He sits down, so that Louis on the other side of Niall and Harry doesn't have the temptation to watch him for the whole time. They don't wait for Liam, who's still at the grill, busy with the pork chops. The meat is delicious, and Harry downs generous amounts of wine with each mouthful. 

While they're eating, Niall finishes telling the others about his Irish adventures. He doesn't allude to the fact that he's itching to go back as soon as possible, giving a very vague response when Liam tries to investigate about his future plans.

When everyone’s full, Zayn clears the table and he and Liam announce they're going to wash up. When they've been gone for a few minutes, an odd silence weaves between Harry, Niall and Louis. Louis hasn't been avoiding Harry per se, but their interactions haven't gone past an occasional, sideways glance and a few stilted words here and there. Harry excuses himself and enters into Liam's house.

The ground floor loo has a window that overlooks a side of the garden. It's open. The evening is quiet and before Harry flushes the toilet he hears familiar voices coming from outside, speaking in hushed tones. If the wind had been blowing in the opposite direction, he probably wouldn't have been able to hear them. 

At first, Harry thinks Niall's giving Louis some sort of best friend intimidating speech. But as he listens closely, ears perking up, he can distinguish Louis' unwavering voice.

"He felt like shit, Niall. He blamed himself."

"I know, we've talked about this," Niall defends.

"Yeah, well, don't you think about doing anything like that ever again." Harry's eyebrows shoot up at these words.

"I'm not gonna leave him again."

"Good," Louis states.

"And, by the way, it should be me grilling you. Not the other way around." 

Harry's frozen on the spot, one hand on the toilet flush. He strains to catch Louis' response, a gentle breeze wafting the smell of flowers and summer through the open window.

"How do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb, mate," Niall reproaches.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

There's a long pause, only filled with the sound of Harry's blood pumping in his ears.

"Okay," Niall sighs. "Fair enough."

Harry feels himself blush everywhere. He decides he needs a glass of water before he ventures outside again, so he heads for the kitchen. He's stumped at first and he irrationally thinks Zayn and Liam are fighting. But, actually, they're snogging each other's face off, Zayn plastered to the counter, with Liam's arms bracketing him. In the attempt of making a silent retreat, Harry smacks the door of the kitchen with his elbow, and the door collides with the wall so loudly Liam startles and Zayn shrieks.

"Holy fuck!" 

"Sorry, sorry," Harry blabbers, "I had no idea. Fuck. I'm sorry."

"You scared the hell out of me," Liam shouts, ad Harry notices he's gone a deep beetroot red in the face. 

"I'm sorry, weren't you supposed to be doing the washing up?" Harry accuses them, and Zayn starts to giggle into Liam's shoulder. Harry can't help but laugh a little too. "Does Louis know?"

"Yeah, he bloody knows." Liam still looks spooked, but Zayn is patting his back and Harry watches him slowly relax.

"Keep this to yourself, mate," Liam says, "it's not a secret but we'd like if this," he gestures between them, "remained private."

"Yes, of course." Harry takes a few steps towards the exit. "I'm gonna leave you to it."

Under his olive complexion, Zayn is unmistakably blushing too. "We'll just be a minute."

Harry finds Louis and Niall arguing about footie. Unnoticed, he plops down on his chair. True to their words, Liam and Zayn reappear less than a minute after. Liam dug out his old acoustic guitar and he's giving it to Niall.

"This is awfully out of tune." Niall keeps plucking the strings, trying to adjust the keys.

"I haven’t used it since I was like thirteen." Liam's sitting next to Zayn, one arm inconspicuously draped over the backseat of Zayn's chair. In hindsight, Harry realises that they've been oddly close to each other all evening and he smiles to himself.

"At least there's a capo," Harry tells Niall.

"Yeah." Niall is roaming into the pockets of his jeans. "Now I just need –" he trails off, extracting a plectrum from his back pocket. "Great."

"So what are we gonna sing?" Harry chirps, staving off the queasiness in his stomach, reminding himself that he doesn't have to put on a performance.

"Not Oasis," Louis says at the same time of Liam exclaiming,"Wonderwall!" 

Laugh startles out of Harry's chest and it's the first time he's genuinely laughed since the night started. 

"Fucking corny," Louis mutters under his breath. For how mawkish and trite a song like Wonderwall is, Harry still thinks it's a masterpiece. It's Liam's favourite song too, so in the end it's only Louis who doesn't approve of the choice. He and Niall agree that he's going to play something by Arctic Monkeys next.

The guitar twangs before Niall starts to play properly, the sound still slightly off, but it'll do. Harry inhales deeply and opens his mouth to sing the first line. There's an inexplicable tension fluttering in the pit of his stomach, a stupid reaction on Harry's part since he's just going to sing for his mates. Harry squirms in the garden chair, regardless, his voice coming out sort of flat. 

By the end of the first part of the verse, Louis' staring at him and Harry feels his gaze searing through his skull. He forces himself to stare at the embers on the stone ledge of the grill, still glowing in the dusk. Niall must sense his discomfort.

"Sing along, guys," he says, just before the second verse. He starts to sing and Liam and Zayn hesitantly follow suit. The weight in Harry's gut somewhat unwinds, and he starts to sing with more confidence. Louis is ignoring their efforts, head bowed while he rolls a cigarette. Liam starts to nudge his arm until he has to stop, and by the time of the last chorus Louis indulges him, but blatantly only mouths the words. 

His feigned annoyance unravels something warm in Harry's chest, hitting a string inside of him that he didn't think still existed. He feels like he belongs. But while some old wounds are healed, there's a different pain in his chest, the awareness that he's going to have to leave this behind soon. 

He hadn't bargained for any of that when he came back to Manchester, but he has found three people that he didn't know he was missing. It'd been easy to rekindle his friendship with Liam with his spontaneous kindness and extraordinary bravery. And he's going to miss him now that he's moving to Newcastle. Zayn, ostensibly unapproachable and always broody, became a good friend as well, and Harry would miss him too if he decided to go to Dublin. 

And Louis. It's morbid to touch on what Louis has come to mean for him as he belts out the final words of the song, their meaning as blunt and as close to home as ever. He forcibly tears his eyes away from Louis' chiseled features when Niall's strumming the last chords.

"I'm gonna miss you guys," Liam says, and in the faint glow of the outdoor lights, Harry's sure Liam's eyes are wet at the corners.

"You're not going to war Liam," Louis snipes, but it's good-natured, and Liam stretches across the table to trap him in a playful headlock. 

They sing another couple of songs, including an acoustic rendition of _Do I Wanna Know?_. Harry finds out Louis' voice is a hundred times better than he'd imagined and more apt to Alex Turner's vocal range than his own, and he's still desperately trying not to dwell onto the meaning of the lyrics (although it's pretty hard when lyrics like _I'm constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you_ and _if this feeling flows both ways_ come up) . 

Now, Zayn is grinding some weed, despite Liam throwing him disapproving looks. They bicker while Harry clears the table of the empty cans and bottles and other residual debris. They tidy up the rest of the veranda and Liam convinces Zayn to light up once they've left; Liam's dad is going to be home from his shift soon anyway.

They head out to central Manchester and they end up in a place that is neither a pub nor a real club. There's a decently sized dance floor and a long bar, but not many people around for now. They settle at a booth and Harry offers to buy the first round of drinks. After the third round, when they've switched from lager to cocktails, Harry's head is pleasantly dizzy. Liam drags Zayn and Niall on the dance floor, while Harry's not in the mood for dancing now. Before Louis comes back from the loo and finds him there by himself, Harry decides to go have a smoke. 

He's just exited the bar when he sees Louis trailing behind him, his right hand tucked in his front pocket, the other wrapped around his packet of cigarettes. Harry's stomach swoops. The street is half-empty and he lights up and wordlessly offers Louis the lighter.

"I heard you and Niall talking," Harry starts, watching a cloud of smoke unroll from Louis' puckered lips. "About me."

"I'm happy he's back, because you needed him here. I just told him not to leave you again." Louis leans against the wall, resting his weight on the outer side of his arm. He's tipsy, his movements slow and calculated, his eyes a smoky blue. 

There's a loose thread on Louis' jumper and Harry has the inexplicable urge to pull on it and watch the fabric break apart until it's only a tangle of cotton filaments. He shakes his head and tries to clear his mind.

"How are you?" he asks, "How are things at home?"

"Same old shit." Louis flicks the stub of the cigarette unto the pavement and their eyes flicker together.

Harry dives down and pecks Louis on the mouth, without thinking, because he's drunk and he's been wanting to kiss him all night. When he pulls back his heart is pounding in his throat. Louis looks bewildered and the moment solidifies between them.

"You can't kiss it better," Louis says lowly, face still close to Harry's. Then he pulls Harry flush against him, grabbing Harry's chin, kissing him roughly, his thumb digging into the flesh under Harry's cheekbone. Harry is breathless and he crowds Louis against the wall, wedging his thigh between Louis' and canting his hips upwards. He licks into Louis' mouth and tastes the smoke on his tongue, the smell of his cologne intoxicating.

“No.” Harry peels himself off Louis. “We can't keep doing this.” He's panting, a half chub already throbbing in his jeans.

Louis whines at the loss of contact, and his eyes pop open. His grip on Harry's shoulders wavers.

“You fucking hurt me, Louis. Even if you didn't mean to, you did.” Harry tries to put some distance between them, even though it's grueling to do so. Louis' hands drop to his sides.

“I tried really hard not to,” Louis mutters, and Harry resists the unbearable need to draw him in close again.

“But you did and you can't decide you didn't,” Harry says, putting his hand next to where Louis' head is still propped up on the wall.

“I never meant to.” Louis glances to the entrance of the pub, the night-lights dancing on his tired face.

“Niall wants to go back to Dublin and he asked me to go with him.” It wasn't supposed to go like this. Harry wasn't supposed to tell Louis yet, and not while he's three sheets to the wind. But it's too late now. Louis looks at him in silence.

“Are you going?” he asks in a whisper, tilting his chin up.

“I haven't decided yet,” Harry admits, and the momentousness of his current position suddenly strikes him. His heart picks up and a wave of nausea surges up at the back of his throat.

“Why?”

“If you –” Harry stutters, “if you gave me a good reason why I shouldn't leave, I wouldn't. Niall wouldn't leave without me.” The alcohol sloshing in Harry's system is doing strange things to his head. He's teetering on the edge of madness and it's agonizing how badly he just wants to just kiss Louis now and never hear the answer to his question, forget about the rest of the world and just feel Louis' lips on his and nothing else.

“Don't let me be selfish,” Louis breathes, “Fuck, Harry.” He slumps against the wall, deflating like a ripped balloon.

“Why?” Harry asks. “I want you to be selfish.”

“Because I don't know if I want you to go.” Louis' jaw twitches. “But you have to go. It's your life, Harry. You should go. You can go and be free and do what you like.” His voice is wet and unsteady. “You can do what I can't do.”

“That’s the fucking problem Louis.” Harry rounds on him, and he wants to scream out of unadulterated exasperation. “Does your own life not matter to you? What do _you_ want Louis?”

“Can't have what I want. I never could.” Louis' face is hard and simultaneously holds a disarming frankness. He straightens up, smooths the creases from his jumper and flicks his fringe to the side. Before making his way back into the bar, Louis says, “There's no reason why you shouldn't go.” 

It's like a punch in Harry's belly disguised as words.

*

After he and Niall are back home, Harry devotes the rest of the night to bawling his eyes out, while Niall pets his hair and hands him tissue after tissue. Harry's positive the shape of his face will be permanently indented into his pillow, considering how he's been smothering himself with it, until it was caked with tears and snot.

He falls asleep clutching Niall's hand. When he wakes up his cheeks are irritated from all the crying and his head is pounding, but he's made up his mind. He's going. 

Later that night, after he's talked with his dad and his nan, he texts Louis to tell him he's leaving in a week. Harry's family has reacted positively, his nan agreeing that there was no real future for him here. He doesn't get an answer from Louis, not that he was really expecting one. 

The following days are pretty hectic. There are a million things they need to take care of; first of all they have to book a flight. They'll need extra luggage space for their guitar cases, and that's a real nuisance with Ryanair, but they manage. Then, accommodation; a long stay hostel will have to do at the beginning, and they'll start looking for a flat as soon as they arrive. 

Harry hasn't seen Niall so excited since before they left for London; he's a bubble of energy and he can't shut up about all the things they're going to do once they've settled in Dublin, all the projects he already has. 

On top of the list, there's the issue of finding a drummer, finding a name for the band, starting to record some videos and setting up a YouTube channel. They'll have to find venues then, but Niall's sure that won't be a problem with his contacts. 

It's easy for Harry to set aside the pang behind his ribs when Niall's jabbering on about their future band. Harry's happy too, but he's also irrationally sad about leaving Manchester and the comforting, suburban life he'd been leading there for the past six months. 

There's a distinctly bittersweet taste to it, and it seems that Harry's ability to write somewhat good lyrics has come back full force. But the lines that pile up on the pages of his journal in the week before the departure are easily the cheesiest stuff he's ever written during his whole life. 

With Liam off to Newcastle, Zayn comes to see them two days before their flight, which is on a Tuesday morning. They hang out on Harry's balcony and none of them mention Louis' name, like it's a taboo. Harry couldn't bring himself to ask Zayn how Louis is doing even if he wanted to. They've been steadily ignoring each other since the other night and Harry testily surmises that it's better that way. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say. 

He keeps busy with the preparations and he doesn't panic until the Monday before their flight to Dublin. He's jittery and he can't stop ambling around the attic in a frenzy, checking his and Niall's suitcases several times to see if they're missing anything. Niall regards him like he's losing his mind, and maybe it's a little bit true. 

Harry's sure he can't possibly leave before saying goodbye to Louis. So he pleads Niall to hide his phone somewhere Harry won't find it, lest Harry decided to text Louis and break his resolve.

In the late afternoon Harry's lying about in his living room, the TV humming feebly in the background. He's been shuddering in and out of consciousness for a while, too skittish to have an actual kip. Niall's spending their last night in Manchester with Greg, Tim and Rebecca. Harry doesn't even think he'll join his family for tea, his insides twisted into knots. There's a knock on his front door, which is pretty odd in itself.

Harry's heart plummets in his stomach. All in all, he wasn't in the slightest prepared to see Louis standing in his doorway with a small bundle in his hands. 

“I asked Ruby to iron it but I'm afraid I've crimped it again. Sorry.” With his lips upturned in a tame smile, Louis extends Harry's Stone Roses t-shirt towards him. Harry is stunned, and he takes the proffered t-shirt without a word. “I thought I should give it back to you, since you – you know. Everything ready?”

“Yeah,” Harry croaks. Louis is wearing a thin white shirt, almost sheer. Harry tries not to stare.

“I texted you earlier.”

“I don't know where my phone is.” 

“Oh,” Louis says. They're standing in front of each other, and all Harry wants to do is take Louis in his arms, strip him, lay him down and look at him for the rest of his days, and count every mole on his back and every freckle on his nose. He's not an artist, but if he were he would paint him. But all the songs he's written with him in mind will have to suffice.

Neither of them know what to say now. Harry doesn't want Louis to leave just yet. 

“I was just going home,” Louis says eventually, his feet still glued to the floor of Harry's landing, his eyes still locked with Harry's.

“Let me drive you.” Harry says, and Louis just gives a nod of assent.

*

When Harry takes the wrong turn for the third time in a row, Louis starts to wriggle in the passenger seat. 

“We're not going to Chatsworth,” he states, eyeing Harry askance.

“No, I thought we could go drive around a bit. If you want.” Harry's grip on the steering wheel is firm, and he tries to focus on the road ahead instead of Louis' diffident profile.

“I'm not going to abduct you, Lou,” he tries to joke. 

“I know,” Louis' head is turned away. “Yeah we could.”

They're both taciturn then. Harry keeps on driving without a definite destination in mind, the radio tuned on some hipster station. They access a country road, and the landscape gradually morphs from neat rows of shrubbery, to tall industrial buildings, to flat expanses of grass and bushes and trees. The sun is lowering, the sky mauve in the twilight. 

“I'm gonna leave tomorrow,” Harry starts out of the blue. Louis hums laconically in acknowledgment. “I'm gonna miss you, Lou.”

Louis doesn't reply. They continue their aimless ride, bathed in silence, until it's beginning to get dark. Louis' hand is fastened around the door handle, in a way that must be painful, his knuckles whitened. Harry throws a proper glance at him. Louis is pale and his breathing erratic.

“Are you alright?” 

“Stop the car,” Louis rasps, face contorting in a terrified expression. “Pull over.”

They're in the middle of nowhere, a low wooden fence skirting at the sides of the road. Harry pulls over and Louis bolts out of the car, climbs over the fence and begins to jog jerkily. Harry trudges behind him, a visceral fear coiling deep in his gut. Louis halts near a tree trunk, and for a moment Harry thinks he's going to start vomiting. But he doesn't, and Harry observes Louis' shoulders heaving with every breath he takes. 

Harry gets the closest he can without touching him. “Louis,” he says, attempting to sound as calm and collected as possible. “Can I touch you?”

Louis takes another ragged breath. “Yes, I don't know what's happening,” he replies, voice crackly. 

Harry embraces Louis from behind, caging him into his arms. Louis is stiff and Harry leans his head into the dip of his neck. “Try to calm down, I'm right here,” he whispers. 

“Breath with me, Louis. Ok?” They swing on the spot, Harry coaxing Louis to simmer down, until their breathing patterns match, and Louis is less rigid.

Louis turns around in Harry's arms.

“I don't know what got into me.” He looks mortified, eyes shimmering with tears. “I'm sorry.” 

Harry cups his face and lays a kiss on the corner of Louis' mouth. Louis surges up and kisses Harry square on the lips, elbows hooking around his neck. Harry leans against the tree on instinct, and Louis presses into him with all of his weight. 

They kiss with tireless tongues for an undefined amount of time, Harry tracing the curve of Louis' back and the globes of his bum again and again. Louis' hands come up to tangle in Harry's wayward curls, and Harry purrs into his mouth. 

In a steady crescendo, their touches become more urgent, their mutual arousal evident where their hips conjoin. Goosebumps arise on every inch of Harry's body when Louis unlocks their mouths and leaves a string of kisses along Harry's jaw, on his neck, in the soft spot behind his ear. 

They're in the middle of the woods and there are shadows everywhere, the sun now almost completely set. Louis unbuttons Harry's jeans and Harry helps him lower the zip. Louis' cold hand settles on the swell in Harry's pants and Harry draws in a shaky breath. Louis folds his hand around Harry's hardness and that single touch ignites a fire inside Harry's core.

“Please,” he gasps, voice catching. Louis squats and drags Harry's pants down, until they're trapped beneath his balls. Harry clasps the sides of the trunk in a struggle to keep himself upright. Louis takes him in his mouth and there's no real finesse to it. Harry loves the way Louis is just sucking him down, both hands resting on his thighs. A moan creeps up his throat. 

With a lewd growl, he slots his hands under Louis' armpits and coerces him to stand up. Louis' lips are shiny with spit and he looks utterly debauched. Harry spins them and backs Louis up against the tree, attacking him with a harsh kiss, tongue laving at the insides of his mouth, reveling his own musky taste. 

He pulls Louis' pants down and gives him a few, dry pumps, then sinks to his knees. He rubs the tip of Louis' cock, spreading the wetness and pulling his foreskin back, before finally enveloping it between his lips. He doesn't move then, just gulps down Louis' length, swallowing around it, nose buried in the coarse tufts of Louis' pubes.

Louis tugs on his hair and Harry loosens his jaw, his head starting to bob up and down, as Louis whimpers and pants above him. Harry's getting himself off with his hand, and he keeps on sucking Louis relentlessly. When Louis starts to squirt hot come into his mouth, Harry almost chokes, his hand savagely fisting his own cock. He watches himself leak onto his fingers, drops falling onto the dirty grass.

Afterwards, Harry has to half carry Louis back to the car. There are three mosquito bites on Harry's forearm, and they itch like mad, soon turning into swollen red welts. Louis flops down on the passenger seat like he was a bag of bones, and Harry more or less cleans them up with some tissues. The car smells like sex and musk and dry leaves. 

They are mute, and after a while Louis lifts himself up and straddles Harry's hips. Without a sound other than their breathing, Louis' arms go around Harry's shoulders. Every atom Harry's made up of is shrinking, the irrevocability of the present moment all-encompassing. 

This is it. This truly is the last time they'll see each other, at least during the foreseeable future. Most importantly, the last time Harry gets to give himself to Louis like this, with no inhibitions. He knows Louis is thinking the exact same thing, that they're sharing a unique kind of unrestrained reciprocity.

They don't talk because they are both too afraid to say anything at all.

Harry's fingers play with the baby hair at the back of Louis' neck, Louis' cheek pressed tightly to his. Harry leaves a light kiss on Louis' collarbone and Louis pulls back until he's staring at Harry with haggard eyes. They kiss with newfound urgency, but there's nothing sexual in it, only the need to be close to each other, one last time. Harry's eye sockets burn, but he doesn't let himself cry. 

“We have to go back,” Harry says in the end, the words leaving a sad taste on the tip of his tongue. His chin is scratched raw from Louis' stubble, his lips chapped. Louis simply nods and dismounts from Harry's lap, hair tousled and mouth tinged red.

Silence is only filled with the buzz of the radio on their way back, and Harry checks every few minutes if Louis has fallen asleep. Once or twice his eyelids are down, other times they are half-mass, and Louis' looking back at Harry askew.

*

“Will you' come to see me off at the airport.” 

They've just parked in front of Louis' house. Harry swings around in his seat and puts his hand on Louis' thigh, leaving it there. Louis wraps his slim fingers around Harry's wrist, thumb pressed to the point where Harry's pulse arrests for a second.

“Yeah,” Louis says, eyes trained on their linked hands. 

Harry brushes his palm lightly on Louis' leg and it's like his mouth is filled with cotton. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah I'll be there, I promise.” Louis' blinking rapidly, eyelashes fluttering wetly.

“See you then.” Harry chokes on his words. Louis is steeling himself, letting out a long breath before he lets go of Harry's hand, opens the car door and steps outside. Harry watches the back of his head disappear behind the wooden fence.

*

That night Harry doesn't sleep, his brain dousing in and out of a fitful slumber.

*

Louis isn't there to see him off the following morning. 

Zayn is giving them a lift to the airport, and before leaving his house he informs Harry via text that Louis hasn't show up at his place yet. He asks Harry if he wants him to go banging on his door, but it's already late, and Harry feels bonelessly tired.

Harry scratches at the three welts on his forearm until they are bleeding, and the skin around them is pitifully red and inflamed. The airport is busy and they barely make it in time to check in their baggage. 

Zayn hugs them tightly, gives them Liam's regards, and makes them promise they'll keep in touch and they'll come back from time to time. Harry holds back tears for the whole time, and on the plane he only sheds a few drops on Niall's shirt.

“Think about all the sappy songs you're gonna write, Haz. This will fuel entire albums.” Niall's consoling skills have always been lacking, but in the present moment they downright suck.

“For fuck's sake, Niall. I'm not fucking James Bay.” Harry punches him in the arm, before sliding forward in his seat, head resting on Niall's shoulder. 

Falling for Louis had been like jumping off a cliff without sucking enough air in his lungs, and Harry has been drowning for far too long now. The fall isn't never-ending, he knows it now, and he'll just have to begin crawling his way back up. 

He's jagged at the edges, but he's not alone. Louis will always be in his heart, where he'll protect every memory and carry it with him in the next era of his life. And he has Niall by his side. Harry _knows_ they can make it.

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. Don't hate me... or maybe come shout at me on Tumblr? 
> 
> My url is lhrryonce.tumblr.com.


End file.
